


How We Break

by Secretness



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Doctor Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretness/pseuds/Secretness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How much pain can one soul take? Sometimes running doesn't work. Where would he go then? Knowing the Doctor's tendencies, Jack tried to keep him in one place, but when it comes to himself, perhaps the Doctor is not as wise as he would like to think.  </p>
<p>And the Doctor thought he couldn't get any worse.  There is always worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crack

“Jack,” Ianto called, running through Torchwood’s rolling door, but Jack couldn’t hear, locked up in his office as he was.

Before Ianto could call again, a man walked in behind him. Young though he obviously was, the loss in his eyes seemed to define him. While the tweed and bow tie would be quirky on others, on him it was a declaration of difference, an attempt at fitting in somewhere that left everyone knowing he did not belong. The young man looked around himself at the rift machine and its spire, the strange way every room seemed to be on a different level, and he looked at the faces, two women and one man, not counting the man he had already met, all of them confused and cautiously alarmed as they slowly ceased all activity. 

A woman with long black hair, Gwen he thought he recalled, turned and entered a small room with shades drawn. He had one wrist pushed uncomfortably flat with his other hand, gripping enough to make his knuckles white. Shuffling awkwardly down the steps, he continued to look about himself, searching.

“Stop moving,” said a male voice, one he did not recognize.

The man had close cut black hair and stood on the topmost step of the medical area—stood with a sleek black gun pointed at the intruder. The other two followed. The door opened and Gwen and Jack spilled out. Guns in hands, the two of them braced their elbows on the railing, leveling their weapons at him.

The young man gave them a small smile that quivered ever so slightly. 

“Who are you and what do you want?” Captain Jack demanded.

Relief at hearing that voice flooded the intruder so strongly a single tear escaped him.

“Jack,” he said as more of a gasp, “I don’t… I didn’t know where… Please….”

“Who are you?” Jack asked again.

The young man took a deep breath and pressed his hands to his face. Air slowly left his lungs, and he rubbed his eyes with the bottoms of his palms. Jack looked at him with a frown. He knew better than to trust a sad face.

“Jack,” the young man said, gesturing at the air with his hands, “I didn’t know where else to go…. I left her on the rift to refuel.”

Understanding began to dawn on him. His mouth eased open, and the muscles in his arms relaxed.

“A-and,” the young man stuttered, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a twisted metal rod with a cracked blue , “And my sonic got… it’s….”

More tears fell down his pale face.

“Doctor?” Jack asked, standing up and lowering his arms.

The man nodded and covered his face again.

“Guns down,” ordered Jack, spinning himself around the railing and sprinting down the steps, “I said guns down!”

A bright joy lit in him as he dashed to the Doctor, but every step brought Jack a little closer, and the smile slid from his face. He slowed as he walked off the last step.

“Doc, what happened?”

“I can’t do it anymore,” the Doctor said, “I just can’t.”

Jack opened his arms. 

The Doctor watched the floor, hunched over as he was, but he saw the gesture in his peripheral vision. With one last sniffle, he gave up, let go, and threw himself at Jack’s chest. A gasp wracked his body and one tear after another soaked itself into Jack’s collar.

Jack watched his friend break and allow himself to be held. More than that, the Doctor needed to be held and finally acknowledged it. The Doctor had a new body again, but that didn’t make it any less painful to feel him sob. Jack folded him into the tightest embrace he could muster without suffocating the man. Turning his head, Jack pressed his lips to the Doctor’s ear, scrunching his eyes shut. What had happened to him? If someone had hurt him—Jack gritted his teeth at the thought—no God in all of creation would spare them. 

“Shhhh, Doc,” he mumbled, “I’ve got you. You are safe now. No one is going to hurt you.”

The words didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Hey, come with me, okay? Up to my office. There’s a couch in there. Come on.”

Jack pulled back a little as he spoke, placing his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders. Head down, the Doctor still wouldn’t look him in the eye. Jack moved his hands down the Doctor’s arms to his wrists and gripped them.

“Yeah, this way,” he said. 

Knowing he was most likely crossing lines, Jack dropped his arm and curled it around the Doctor’s waist, pulling him close, but he didn’t let go of the Doctor’s hand. He could see the other man trying to control his breathing, using his free hand to wipe away the tears that continued to fall. Guiding him up the stairs was slower than Jack would have expected because his friend didn’t seem to want to step away from him. Jack held him tighter.

“Gwen, could you go make some tea?”

She nodded, finally holstering her gun, and sped off. 

Leading them through the door, Jack released the Doctor’s hand and pushed the door closed behind him. The Doctor pulled both of his hands into his chest and wrung them until his fingers were red. The office seemed like Jack, a messy desk, old fashioned safes, random artifacts and books littering the floor, and on their left was a black leather couch. One of the shelves above it stacked with horizontally placed books held a box of condoms that didn’t look like anyone had even attempted to hide. The Doctor smirked and scrubbed the moisture off his face again.

“There,” Jack said, sliding his arm away from the Doctor and nudging him to the couch, “A tiny smile, can’t be all that bad.”

Sitting on the couch, just on the edge like he was, allowed the Doctor to relax, and he hadn’t realized how badly he needed to. His muscles melted. Then Jack was there in   
front of him, kneeling on the carpet, knees between the Doctor’s feet. He had somehow missed Jack getting on the floor, but it didn’t matter. He was there. One of the Doctor’s abused hands reached out and curled its fingers into Jack’s blue button-up shirt, pulling him inches closer. Leaning forward, the Doctor rested his forehead against Jack’s. He closed his eyes and the rest of his body relaxed. Tears resumed but this time they were silent and slow.

Purposely keeping his breath even was difficult for Jack. He gently placed his hands on either side of the Doctor’s neck. He moved so that he could glare unseeingly at the back of his couch and spoke, his lips brushing the Doctor’s forehead.

“Just tell me, did someone hurt you? I need to know. Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” the Doctor mumbled.

Jack closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the Doctor’s forehead. He took a deep breath and sat back, but his hands still lingered on the Doctor’s neck.

“Well then, whatever it is, it’s nothing I can’t fix, right?”

He did his best to keep his voice light, but he felt dread swelling in him every second. The Doctor had suffered more than Jack would ever know, so what had broken him now? 

“Hey, just breathe.”

The Captain ran his fingers through the Doctor’s scalp.

“How do you always end up with amazing hair?”

The comment and its accompanying smile went unacknowledged. After a minute, the Doctor reached out and pulled Jack closer again, still not looking at him. Jack closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the Doctor’s. His hand trailed through his friend’s hair a second time, slower and gentler. 

It wasn’t a surprise; it didn’t happen quickly, but Jack never suspected even as he watched. The Doctor turned his head enough to tilt it forward and press his lips against Jack’s. Desperation, Jack thought, he had never felt anything so desperate in all his lifetimes. It pulled at him, and he found himself returning it, like if he could do it well enough he could make that feeling vanish.

Fingertips brushed his face so feather light he wasn’t sure they were there at first, and then he felt them again. This time they stayed, delicately framing his jaw. It was all Jack could do not to groan in frustration. He gently curled his fingers around the Doctor’s palms and pulled his hands away. Viciously biting into his own bottom lip, Jack replaced his forehead against the Doctor’s.

Jack said quietly, “Not when you’re like this.”

The Doctor’s face crumpled as if Jack had physically crushed him. He pulled his hands back and tried to rub away yet another fresh wave of tears. 

“I know this isn’t how you expect me,” he said, his voice thick and disjointed with ragged breathing, “I know, but I can’t change back, I can’t. People liked him more; I know you wanted him, but…but I’m just this.”

“No,” Jack said right away, alarm and urgency in his movements as he once again took the Doctor’s hands in his, “No, I don’t mean your body, Doc. I will take you in any form. You should know that. I mean your mind. I don’t know what’s wrong or why, but there’s definitely something, and I don’t intend to ever take advantage of you. So no, not when you’re like this.”

Standing, Jack placed a quick kiss on top of the Doctor’s head and pulled him to his feet.

“This will not be comfortable to sleep in,” Jack said, pulling at the collar of the Doctor’s jacket.

It took a minute before the Doctor cooperated and let his friend remove his tweed, revealing red suspenders and far too much of his unfortunately patterned shirt.

“Those boots should go too.”

The Doctor looked down at his feet and blinked several times before he sat back down and began to unlace them. He should have left the jacket on, Jack decided as he leaned his butt against his desk watching the man before him. The last regeneration was thin, comically so, but it fit him. This regeneration was also thin but that wasn’t completely accurate. It was more like he was small, too small, almost under developed. Watching him pull his undone boots off one at a time, Jack’s heart sank. Vulnerable, that’s what the Doctor was, small and young and vulnerable. 

The Captain pushed himself forward, took a couple steps, and sat beside his friend. He put an arm around him and pulled him with as Jack laid back into the arm of the couch. The Doctor followed and rested his head on the front of Jack’s shoulder, but that didn’t seem to be enough. He kept moving and maneuvering until he had pushed Jack nearly flat and laid on top of him like an exhausted child. He held a fist full of Jack’s shirt and buried his face in his collar again. The Doctor’s hips lined up perfectly between Jack’s, and his legs curled almost at a ninety degree angle. He snuggled himself down so far into the person underneath him there was no need for a blanket.

Jack held his arms aloft, allowing the Doctor to get comfortable. When he stopped moving and within seconds seemed to already be asleep, Jack let his arms gently fold around him again. He turned his head and rested his face in the Doctor’s hair. Jack decided he would not move. He wouldn’t move even an inch, not until the Doctor was ready.


	2. Steps

“Uuugh.”

Jack smirked at the Doctor’s groan. 

He buried his fingers in the Doctor’s hair and smiled, saying, “You think you’re stiff. Try being the bottom.”

The Doctor didn’t respond. He scrunched his gooey eyes shut and rubbed his face on the chest under his head. With a deep breath, he lifted his head and blinked several times.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

The Doctor frowned as though he couldn’t remember how he ended up atop the immortal friend he hadn’t seen in 250 years. He started to sit up and realized he was probably crushing Jack’s organs. He slid off carefully and stood, stretching, hands above his head, but at the height of his stretch he lost his balance. A hand grabbed his arm and steadied him.

“Thanks,” the Doctor mumbled.

Jack released him and went to the door. He opened it and nearly crushed a couple of tea cups. 

“Gwen,” muttered Jack affectionately as he picked them up and closed the door, “Doc, my team is out there working. Do you want to meet them?”

Playing nice hadn’t been on the list of things to do. Dreading actually was more accurate. The Doctor ran his thumb over his bottom lip. It was cracked and catching on his nail.

“Is there a place I could clean up first?” he asked hoarsely, folding his hands behind his back and bouncing on the balls of his feet, “So that I don’t look like I cried myself to sleep?”

Narrowing his eyes, Jack stepped closer. He raised his arm and lightly touched the Doctor’s chin.

“You don’t have to. We can stay in here all day. That’s okay.”

“No,” said the Doctor lightly, shaking his head with a thin lipped smile, “No, it’s fine, just let me clean up a bit. This way?” 

The Doctor pointed his finger to the right and walked, almost skipped, to the door, opened it, and pranced out, his socked feet skimming on the carpet. Jack followed at a distance, watching as the Doctor scrutinized everything he passed. Down by where Jack slept most nights there was a bathroom that had a shower, but he was reluctant to leave the Doctor alone for very long and didn’t necessarily want to bring him anywhere near Jack’s bed. 

The Doctor walked his way across the landing and came to an overly complicated coffee machine and its fixings. A ways to its right was a door. He cautiously poked his head in and then entered. It was a small bathroom, dim even after he flipped the switch. It held a low toilet and a sink. All of the bathroom was a dirty white except for a large, brown wicker shelving unit that nearly consumed the wall beside the toilet. It was so out of place, the Doctor paused on his way in to frown at it. It contained every hygienic and cosmetic amenity available: combs, brushes, tampons, toothbrushes, floss, several different types of razors, lipsticks and various other makeup pieces. It seemed Torchwood was accustomed to working through the night.

The Doctor closed the door and paced over to the sink. He braced his hands on the sides of the bowl and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel like crying, not anymore, but he certainly didn’t feel better. Running, that’s what he needed, to run and run until there was no strength left in his legs, but somehow he barely had the energy to stand. A nagging feeling in his mind said he had to do something, fix something, but he had no clue as to what, and damn it all, he just didn’t want to. His body was at war over whether to briskly pace or lie down on the cool floor. Instead he was stuck standing, immovable even when the door opened, someone entered, and closed the door. He knew it was Jack. Did he know anyone else who would follow him into the bathroom?

Lifting his head, the Doctor watched Jack in the mirror as the man went to the wicker shelving and withdrew a white cloth. He shook it open and wrapped it around the fingers of his left hand. He walked up behind the Doctor, put his arms around him to get to the fosset, and turned on the cold water. He wet his fingers and the cloth and turned off the tap.

“Here, look at me,” Jack said softly, taking the Doctor’s arm and turning him. 

With his free hand, Jack cupped the Doctor’s chin.

“Close your eyes. This should help.”

The Doctor did as Jack said and closed his eyes. Remembering the rejection he received last night, he fought the strange urge to turn his head and press his face into Jack’s hand. With steady fingers, Jack gently smoothed the cool cloth over one of the Doctor’s eyes. For a minute, the Doctor lost all thought. He had never felt something so soothing in his life. He stood perfectly still as Jack carefully rubbed out the grogginess and lessened the swelling. He hadn’t known before that the red tissue around his eyes was so heated. Jack switched hands with everything, ran fresh cold water through the cloth, and slowly brought it over the Doctor’s other eyelid, one gentle, caressing wipe after another.

“I can keep going,” Jack offered. 

“No,” said the Doctor right away, not sure why he was refusing.

He shook his head and stepped back in front of the mirror. He did look a little better. Jack produced an extra toothbrush and mouth wash, grabbed a comb, thought better of it, tossed it, and picked up a brush instead. He placed them all carefully around the thin edges of the sink.

“I’m assuming if you need a razor or anything, a Time Lord can figure out how to use one?” Jack said with a crooked smile.

The Doctor nodded, replacing his hands around the bowl. 

“Anything I can do?” asked Jack quietly.

The Doctor shook his head.

“I’ll come check on you if you take too long, forewarning.”

~

“So that’s your doctor,” said Gwen, “The one you left us for. What happened to him?”

The question drew in their colleagues. Owen slinked over from the medical area and Tosh and Ianto turned around, away from her computer. 

Jack heaved out a breath and set his hands on his hips, and said, “I don’t know what happened. He’s never come to find me before, so I think it will be fairly bad. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s in the bathroom freshening up, but when he’s done, I’m going to come and introduce him to you all. If you could pretty please be extremely friendly, that would be amazing. I need him comfortable so he wants to stay so I can help him.”

All four of his team nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Jack was guiding the Doctor way from the coffee machine with a fresh cup and taking him over to the individual members of his team. 

“This is Gwen. She’s my fighter,” Jack told him gesturing to the long haired woman.

“Hello,” said the Doctor with a smile.

He reached out his hand, but instead of shaking it, Gwen grabbed his whole arm, locked elbows with him, and took him around.

“This is Tosh. She is our computer and techy person,” she said, her Welsh accent thick.

“She built a working primitive sonic device,” Jack added, standing up on his toes from somewhere in the back.

“From plans,” Tosh added bashfully. 

“Faulty plans,” amended Jack, “fixed the flaws as she went.”

Thin though the Doctor’s eyebrows were, they were definitely higher than usual. 

“I’ve never come across a human who had done that before. That’s extremely impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“And this,” Gwen said, pulling the Doctor around, “Is Owen. He’s our doctor and the resident ass.”

As if to punctuate her statement, Owen carefully placed a beaker, meticulously pulled off one latex glove, and raised his middle finger at her.

“Last but not least, we have Ianto. He used to be kind of like the secretary, but we like him so much, he’s usually out with us kicking butt.”

“Hello,” Ianto said, holding his hand out before the Doctor could, “We hear about you often.”

“How unfortunate for you,” said the Doctor with a smirk, “I’m sorry to barge in on all of you yesterday. I think I might have given you a fright.”

“Yeah,” said Owen, “Crying aliens aren’t common around here—unless we’ve shot them first.”

“Owen,” Jack said in a low tone.

The Doctor frowned, but Gwen covered up her dirty look, and said, “It’s not often our frights turn into old friends that don’t want to kill us, so you’re most welcome.”

The Doctor gave her an endearing smile. He looked around himself, and his eyes set on the rift machine.

“Do you mind if I take a look at this?” asked the Doctor.

Gwen gestured for him to have at it. He patted his chest atomically, looking for his sonic, but not only was it melted and useless, he wasn’t even wearing his jacket. Instead   
he felt around the mechanism and eyed up the wires.

“We just call it the rift machine,” Tosh said quietly with a shrug.

“It’s been activated recently,” the Doctor said, getting down on one knee and turning his head as far to the side as it would go, “You didn’t even shut it down all the way.”

He reached through wires and gears and tugged at something. All six of them felt it when it shut down completely. A tingling in the air ceased. It was so soft and so constant they hadn’t known it was there until it was gone. The Doctor sighed and looked over at them, irritation slowly morphing to anger.

“Rifts in anything are not to be tampered with by anyone,” he said, “It is not up to Torchwood to decide what’s safe and what’s not. You don’t know anything about it. You risked the entire planet tampering with this. Why does this machine even exist?”

“It…” Tosh started, “It helps us measure rift activity.”

“But it doesn’t just do that. It has the capability of widening the rift. You could lose the entire planet through this crack, and who knows what sort of creature would come   
out on this side. Jack, you know all of this. I trusted you with this planet. Why was it opened?”

“Um,” started Gwen, stepping forward, “Owen opened it a little when Jack and Tosh got trapped in the past, and when they came back there was this… bad guy who sent us visions, people from our pasts that we loved, and they all said that we should open the rift to get them back. It wasn’t Jack’s fault. He tried to stop us. Owen shot him in the head.”

Owen at least had the decency to look ashamed. 

“Actually,” continued Gwen quietly, stepping up to the Doctor and taking his hand, “I asked Jack after what visions he would have had to see to convince him to open the rift, and he said no vision would convince him, only a man, a Doctor, the one person he trusted above himself with the laws of time and space.”

The Doctor looked past her to Jack several feet away, who was scratching the back of his head and digging the tip of his shoe into the grated floor. The Doctor looked at the machine and blinked several times.

“Right,” he said reaching into it again, “I’m crippling it.”

He removed several small pieces of metal and slid them into his pants pocket. Plucking wires one at a time, he untangled the mess and requested tools. The Torchwood team scattered to get him what he needed. Eventually, they resumed their previous activities. Brilliant though the Doctor was, watching him pluck and weld wires for three hours wasn’t exactly exciting. 

“What’s up, Doc?” asked Jack, pacing around and looking down at him on the floor.

The Doctor couldn’t see Jack through the tangle above him.

“I need my spectro-goggles,” he said, “But that’s okay. I need to make a trip out to the TARDIS anyway and get her started on a new sonic.”

“No.”

The clippers in the Doctor’s hand stilled.

“No?”

“No,” repeated Jack simply with a shrug.

“It’ll take 20 minutes,” the Doctor said as though reasoning with a child, snipping a blue wire.

Jack crouched down onto the grating, grabbed the Doctor around the knees, and pulled him out. The Doctor slid easily from under the machine, his arms frozen mid-movement, hair folded back on itself. He blinked at Jack with a frown.

“No,” said Jack one more time, “You’re not going to the TARDIS because you’ll run away. Don’t try to convince me otherwise; I won’t believe it for a second. You aren’t leaving until I’m absolutely sure you are okay.” 

The Doctor opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but Jack tapped his lips with a finger and glared him into silence.

“Right now, you belong here with me, with us. Even the Doctor needs people to care for him sometimes. And I was under the impression he was a wise enough man to know when that is the case.”

Jack raised his eyebrows in challenge, but the Doctor said nothing. His eyes drifted to the floor.

“Make a list,” Jack said, standing up, “of everything you need from the TARDIS, and I’ll go get it later. But—“ Jack smirked, “—that means I’m leaving you with Gwen.”


	3. Jumping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer, and the next one will be pretty much only smut, but it can be skipped without missing anything.

Observing the Doctor throughout Torchwood was like watching a random adult instruct idiot kindergartners on how to cut paper with big kid scissors. Tosh’s computer system got a complete overhaul she was struggling to understand. The rift machine was is shambles spread out over every surface in Torchwood and draped over the Doctor’s neck. Jack was fairly sure he was doing more than just crippling it. One of the found artifacts turned out to be an instrument from the Sillion galaxy, and the Doctor sat patiently with Gwen and taught her how to play it. After Owen made a very forced effort to be nice, the Doctor let him scan him but didn’t offer much in way of explanation. Ianto was a little difficult it seemed for the Doctor to bond with, but when he quietly beckoned the Doctor to follow him down to the cells, Jack hesitantly followed.

“May I ask why we are down here?” asked the Doctor, “Oooh, a weevil! I haven’t seen one of those in a long time.”

“They came through the rift, but they breed. There’s a whole army out there,” Ianto told him, “Right here.”

Ianto entered the last cell. The Doctor carefully peered around the corner in time to see him heave a large wooden chest up off the floor and onto the decrepit cot. 

“I just wanted to ask,” Ianto said so quietly the Doctor had to step into the cell to hear, “Were you at the Battle of Canary-Whorf? Did… did you see Torchwood One fall?”

 

Breath caught in the Doctor’s chest. 

Rose.

He didn’t need this, couldn’t handle it. She was the first loss, the worst of so many. His dreams were still built around her smile, and the permanent ached in his chest could always somehow be traced back to her and what they should have been together. 

“Doctor?”

He yanked his unseeing vision from the wall and back to Ianto’s questioning face.

“Yes,” said the Doctor.

He cleared his throat and continued, “Yes, I was there.”

“Do you know a lot about Cybermen?”

“Yes.”

Ianto dug his fingers under the lip of the lid on the trunk and hefted it open. The wood creaked and fell back with a heavy thud on the cot. The Doctor frowned and stepped forward.

“Lucy,” said Ianto quietly, “Her name was Lucy. She was my girlfriend. I loved her…. When the Cybermen realized they had to fight Daleks, they stopped their regular conversion and started just upgrading the human body. Lucy was half through the process when the machinery stopped. I pulled her out…. She screamed the entire time…. I brought her here to Torchwood Three as soon as I got Jack to give me a job. I kept her secret for months on a cyber converter bed in the basement. I wanted to bring her back. She was still human; it was possible. But—but she started killing people. We tried to stop her, but once she could move around on her own—no respirator--nothing stopped her. She ended up killing the pizza delivery girl and switched out their brains, but she still said that she and I should be upgraded together.”

The story broke Ianto’s voice. If the Doctor had any less control it would have crushed him and sent him running for Jack again. Instead he threw himself into his curiosity. Reaching into the chest, he picked through the tarnished silver metal. Some of it had blackened chunks of flesh stuck around the edges, and all of it was spattered with blood. He pulled out a breast plate, which he’d never seen before, pieces to her feet, braces that would have coated her arms, and then he pulled out the head piece.

“I could have saved her,” Ianto sobbed, face in hands.

“No, you couldn’t have,” said the Doctor, turning the head piece in his hands, “No, Ianto, she lost her humanity the second they took a drill to her.”

“No, she—she said loved me. She was okay until we disconnected her from the oxygen pump.”

The Doctor put the metal in its chest and turned back to the other man. He set his hands on Ianto’s shoulders and spoke calmly.

“What makes a Cyberman a Cyberman is that it has no emotion. They’re inhibited because being upgraded hurts. When they switched from transplanting the brain to upgrading the body, the first thing they did was drill into the brain to remove all emotions. She wasn’t inhibited; they were cut out of her being, Ianto. She loved you, I am sure, but she was still part computer so that she could be hooked up to the cyber network. It was tactical to keep herself alive. Like you said, once she could breathe on her own, she didn’t need help. I’m sorry, but there is not a single thing you could have done to bring her back.”

One, two, three stumbled steps backwards, Ianto slid down the stone wall to the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs. The Doctor should have gone to him, should have offered some form of comfort. Why didn’t he? Instead he just stood there and watched him for how long, the Doctor had no clue. His body began to move, but his eyes did not. Whatever passed in front of him as he walked didn’t imprint on memory or thought. 

Was that what he looked like? When he stopped being able to prance around like a child, was that how he ended up? No, he hadn’t curled up in pain when he lost Rose; he’d just slowly tearstained his pillow every time he laid down. And when it seemed like breathing was easier, he lost Donna in perhaps the worst way possible. She became just another hole in his chest that convulsed around nothing. 

He was dizzy. There was certainly no way he was walking straight anymore. His left hand rubbed on the brick wall. Nausea grew in him like a ball pushing outwards at every angle until it bent him over. He heaved and gagged but produced nothing. He couldn’t remember how long ago he’d eaten anything more than the coffee this morning. Refusing to sink to the floor, he braced himself on the wall and eventually it passed. He continued down through the hall, stumbling perhaps a little less than before. He heard steps. A shadow grew on the wall. 

It was Tosh. She frowned at him.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yes, but Ianto could probably use someone.”

She nodded, but asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’m okay.”

She hurried past him. Several feet later through the tunnel, Gwen came rushing down.

“How are you doing?” she asked, slowing her pace.

“I’m okay,” he told her and gestured for her to move on to Ianto.

She nodded and scurried away. 

The Doctor again continued. Were they being extra cautious of him because of the state he arrived in, or did he really just look that terrible? He had left a grieving man alone. Gods be damned. He rubbed his hands over his face and struggled to move forward. How long had this hall been on his way down? 

Finally there were the steps. He mounted the first one and nearly lost his breath with the effort. The second one--his right leg barely lifted him up onto it. He tried a third. His hand pressed flat against the wall. He used it to help push himself up, but his left leg trembled so violently, it was all he could do to keep upright. Heaving again, still nothing came out. He doubled over and gagged. His hand slid down the wall as he gave up and sat on the third step instead, choking on the back of his throat. 

What was wrong with him?

He rested his forehead on the wall. It was cool; it was like the cloth.

One heavy, muted footstep touched the steps behind him, then another and several more until boots appeared on the step next to his own feet. Jack sat beside him. Torchwood had never been so silent. Even the weevil wasn’t making a sound. Gradually the Doctor’s breathing evened out. He swallowed, his throat thick and swollen from heaving, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Pushing away from the brick, the Doctor picked up his head and stared at the floor.

“I’m not okay,” he said hoarsely.

He leaned the other direction and let his weight fall into Jack’s shoulder. Jack tucked an arm around him and rested his chin on top of the Doctor’s head.

“I know,” he breathed.

~

It was a question, just a question. Of course Jack knew there was a strong possibility it might be a difficult one, given that it came from the Doctor’s mumbling in his sleep, but he assumed given the new regeneration it would be long in the past. He still didn’t really know if it was or not. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the noises coming from his friend. All he could think to do was hold him and wait for an answer to surface.

Who was Donna? 

The Doctor had dissolved. Jack was thankful he had at least waited until the others went home or they would have heard his friend through the closed office door. The two of them were sitting on the floor, Jack’s back against the black sofa. The Doctor wasn’t so much curled up with Jack as he was forced there by the strength in Jack’s arms. He couldn’t have gotten away if he tried.

Eventually the Doctor spoke and when he did, the words would not stop. Martha and Miki, Jack and his Torchwood team, Rose and the meta-crisis, Donna, the Master (twice it seemed), a young girl named Jenny, his regeneration, and Amy and Rory. He said how he tried to leave Amy and Rory beforehand but was too weak. He kept going back to get them, to be with them, and then like all the others, he lost them. He spoke of a woman called River, who Jack gathered was quite significant in his life, but after a couple days, she ran off to a call by who knows, and left him. He paced around the TARDIS for what amounted to a week, but she didn’t come back, and he hadn’t known what to do.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” the Doctor gasped, “I’m sorry. I know you’re busy, but I thought—I thought maybe I could be of some use… maybe you could need help.”

He raked in a harsh sob, but Jack grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him one rough shake. The shock of it startled him out of tears.

“Listen up,” said Jack sternly, “You don’t need a reason or excuse or to be of use to me to be here. You are my friend. I trust you more than anyone in the universe. Yes, I have other friends here, and they need me, like so many people need you, but don’t you think for a second, don’t you dare think I don’t care for you, that I wouldn’t drop everything if you needed me. In the end, Doctor, when it comes down to it, it will always be you and me. The Time Lord and the Immortal.”

The Doctor stared at him in shocked silence, completely at a loss for what to say. He sat back against the couch and stared at his browned socks. 

“Hungry?” asked Jack.

Automatically, the Doctor shook his head, making his hair flop back and forth.

“I’ll ask again, hungry?”

The Doctor looked up at Jack and blinked. He tried to open his mouth, but he was so gummy and swollen, not even a croak came out. 

“I’ll take that as a yes and call for pizza. I think Jubilee’s still delivers at this time.”

~

His face was stuck. It took great care to peel his cheek from the leather of the couch, and when his face was free, he regretted not just letting the couch eat him. Pain thundered through his head. He dropped himself back down face first into the cushion, sharply crunching his nose. He groaned, debating whether or not the day could possibly be worth it.

His eyelids needed to be physically pushed open and rubbed before he could see, and even then his vision was clouded. Blinking just made the blurry spots shift. 

Down on the floor was Jack’s long coat and some wadded up laundry. A thread of guilt spun through the Doctor as he realized Jack had slept on the floor. Two pizza boxes were thrown to the side, one empty, the other he suspected still had food in it because he doubted Jack would have eaten both pizzas. He practically shoved a slice down the Doctor’s throat and put a second one in his hand. That piece made its way back to the pie, and Jack didn’t try to get him into any more of it. 

Groggily, the Doctor forced himself up into a sitting position, and when his head stopped spinning and trying to beat him back down, he stood and fumbled his way out of the office. He took a few steps and leaned his forearms on the railing that Jack and Gwen had threatened him from only a few days ago. Down below Gwen and Ianto squabbled over something he couldn’t hear. 

“You look like hell,” said Owen.

He walked from the coffee machine over to the Doctor with a frown, eyeing him up and down. 

“Really,” he continued, “If your clothes weren’t so wrinkled and stretched, I’d say Jack spent all night working you over. I can hook you up if you’d like—fluids and maybe some narcotics.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to respond, but Jack’s sharp tone cut across them as he climbed the stairs to his office.

“No, Owen. Never, ever give him any kind of pain medication. It doesn’t work right with his body. Some of them will kill him…. Do you offer to drug all our guests?”

“No,” drawled Owen, “Just the ones that look like it would be an improvement for.”

Before Jack could cuff him in the back of the head, Owen ducked out and returned to the medical bay. 

“Bathroom?” asked Jack.

“Yeah,” croaked the Doctor.

This time Jack went straight for a cloth. The Doctor clasped his hands behind his back and leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He didn’t mean to be expectant, didn’t want to be, but he stood and waited. The tap turned on and off. Calloused fingers cupped one side of his chin, and the chill of the cloth pressed over his opposite eyelid. It was gloriously soothing. His lips parted, and he tilted his head forward. After a few minutes, Jack withdrew and ran fresh water. He switched hands, and the Doctor felt Jack’s fingers on the other side of his face. When the coolness touched him again, his hands came out from behind him almost by themselves and rested on Jack’s wrists.

“I’ve got you, Doc,” Jack told him gently. 

It took a while before the Doctor opened his eyes, and only then was Jack satisfied. He kissed the Doctor’s forehead and tossed the rag at the sink.

“Breakfast,” he said, “In the meeting room. I’ll come get you if you’re not there.”

~

When the Doctor got to the meeting room, Jack wasn’t anywhere in sight, but the other four members of his team were eating and chatting. They greeted him enthusiastically, and Tosh gestured at a chair with a plate in front of it. 

“Owen ate the last of the eggs,” Gwen told him, “And Jack made you that coffee, God help you.”

The Doctor smiled and pulled out his chair. He assumed that this coffee would be as… striking as the cups he had before, but that was okay. He could choke it down. As he sat, Ianto caught his eye and nodded with a small smile. The Doctor grinned back, unexpectedly relieved that this man didn’t hate him or hold him responsible for anything. The grin fell off his face instantly when he looked down at his plate. He pressed himself into the back of his chair, eyes wide. 

Bacon and toast. 

Nope.

His brain worked furiously on how to get him away from the table without having to eat anything. Now that he was looking at it, he could smell the bacon, and it made his stomach roll. He slid his hand through the handle of the coffee mug and quickly stood completely straight. Owen and Gwen both frowned at him. 

“Gwen, I haven’t asked,” he said brightly, hoping to distract, “Is that a wedding ring or an engagement ring?” 

She smiled and twisted the ring on her finger, answering, “Engagement. His name’s Reese. Getting married next month.”

“Congratulations,” said the Doctor with a little bounce.

He took a sip of the coffee, and it was relieving after the bacon smell, probably the only time that particular coffee had been described as such. He smiled at the rim of the cup as he pulled it down.

“Hey.”

They all turned at the sound of Jack’s voice. He was in his long coat, and the Doctor wondered where he could have got to in the twenty-five minutes since they’d last seen each other.

“Here, got something for you,” said Jack.

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a small black box with no seams and a thick, metal stick with a green light at the end.

“My sonic!” the Doctor exclaimed, snatching from Jack immediately, “Thank you, thank you so much.” He kissed it. “Oh, I have missed you.” He wheeled around, eager to show it off. “Tosh, have a look at this.”

As the two chatted, Jack stepped to the side and looked around them. He leaned over to Gwen and Ianto, and asked, “Did he eat anything?”

Gwen shook her head.

Jack removed his coat, folded it in half, and draped it over the back of the chair. He approached them and reached out, letting his hand rest on the Doctor’s side. The Doctor stiffened in surprise but didn’t stall in what he was saying. 

“Tosh,” Jack cut in, “Can I steal him? Here.”

“Hey!”

Jack plucked the sonic screwdriver form the Doctor’s grip and handed it over to her. He guided a now very grumpy looking Doctor back over to his chair and pointed to the plate.

“You have to eat.”

The Doctor looked at the plate and leaned away as if he were seeing an execution warrant with his name on it. He put both his hands around the cooling mug and looked at Jack.

“I appreciate that you are including me, and I also appreciate that you are trying to take care of me, but if I’m being perfectly honest, I would rather lick the floor.”

Jack raised his eye brows.

“Okay,” he said, “What would you like to eat instead?”

The Doctor shrugged and sipped his coffee, fighting back a cringe. 

“What do you want?”

“You wouldn’t have anything I like on hand here anyway.”

“Then I’ll make a special trip. Not a big deal.”

Just outside the meeting room, Ianto picked up his own empty mug with the intention of refilling it, but through the glass, he saw the Doctor carefully drinking and smirked. He turned back around and entered the meeting room in time to hear a baffled and bemused Jack say, “So you want me to get fish sticks… and a carton of custard filling… so you can dip them…?”

“If you’re insisting on getting something, yes, but I know it’s a strange request.”

Jack put his hands up as if in defense and said, “No, if you will eat it, I’ll go get it right now. Anything else?”

The Doctor shook his head. Jack scooped his coat off the chair and shrugged it back on, saying that he’d be back soon and muttering something to Gwen about keeping an eye on him.

“You must really like Jack,” Ianto said.

The Doctor turned to him with traces of a frown.

“Yes, of course I do.”

“No, I mean you really like him. He’s important.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

Ianto pointed with both fingers at the mug between the Doctor’s hands, and told him, “You are drinking Jack’s coffee. You have a few times now. You must like him.”

The Doctor gave his cup an affectionate look and shrugged. 

“If he’s going to make it for me, I’ll drink it.”

“You’re gutsy, I’ll give you that. I am the drink maker around here. I’m going to make some more for us, and if you want I can rinse that out and refill it with the good stuff.”

For a couple seconds the Doctor looked torn, and then handed over the cup, saying, “Please.”

Ianto’s smile grew as he took it. He went to leave but seemed to think better of it, and said, “Thank you, you know, for yesterday. For being honest. I thought I failed her, thought if I had done one thing different, maybe she’d have…. It wasn’t my fault. Thank you.”

Ianto didn’t seem to need any affirmation from him. He walked away, gathering cups as he went. The Doctor lightly wrung his hands, unsure of what else to do with them. Tosh caught up his attention again.

~

Jack returned with the promised goods, but Torchwood didn’t have an oven. Jack felt the Doctor took far too much pleasure in running through the hub and ripping apart various equipment to construct a sufficient cooking appliance. It was certainly the most energetic he’d been since he arrived. The others were fascinated watching him. Even Owen sacrificed some of his medical devices for the cause. 

Several minutes later, a bugle horn went off, and everyone in Torchwood, save the Doctor, jumped out of their skin. The Doctor however, sprang to his feet from underneath the rift machine, cheered, hands in the air, and ran to his little oven. 

He and Jack took a seat up by the coffee machine, Jack setting down a rather large bowl of yellow custard. He was still a little surprised when his friend dipped and devoured his chosen meal. 

“Oh,” said the Doctor with a sudden thought, “I asked you to grab this.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the seamless box. “It responds to my base code DNA.”

The Doctor stroked his thumb over the top, and it slid back easily. Inside was a small key with a circular handle.

“TARDIS key,” said the Doctor, handing it over, “For you.”

Jack paused.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Take it.”

Jack did, not quite sure of what to say, but then the Doctor began ranting about something Jack didn’t catch, and he was spared looking like a fool.

~

Jammie Dodgers had been a good call. The first regeneration Jack had known of the Doctor inhaled them when they were around, and it seemed it was one thing that did not ever change. Jack was starting to get seriously concerned the Doctor would vomit if he ate any more. 

“Thank you for getting my clothes washed,” said the Doctor, plucking at a button on the front of his shirt, “That shower was amazing.”

They were once again in Jack’s office, late, on the floor, backs against the front of the couch. The Doctor licked his fingers of jelly one at a time, filling somehow smeared across one of his cheeks.

“I figured it would be. Might need another one now.”

“Why?”

Jack smiled at him. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand, reached over, and wiped it off the Doctor’s face. 

“Thanks.”

The Doctor pulled his knees up to his chest and tapped them awkwardly in the silence. Yes, he was tired, but no more so than every minute of the entire week. Normally he didn’t need so much sleep, but exhaustion had been so constant for so long, he was accustomed to functioning with it, and he wasn’t remotely interested in sleeping on the couch again.

“I did better today,” he finally said, “Right?”

“Yes,” agreed Jack immediately, “So much it almost concerns me.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes.

“I’m too upset or too happy. You should pick a direction you want me to go in.”

“No, it’s not that at all,” said Jack, turning towards him, “It was sudden and quick, and I have a hard time believing you’re actually getting better and not just having mood swings of some sort.”

“I’m fine, Jack,” the Doctor said with exasperation.

He reached out, grabbed a fist full of Jack’s shirt, and used it as leverage to scoot himself closer.

“Really, I’m just fine. Thank you.”

The Doctor held the back of Jack’s neck and kissed him, but immediately Jack gently pushed him back. 

“See, not fine.”

“Why won’t you do this? I’m right here. There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not like you haven’t had this in mind for a long time.”

Jack scratched his head, trying to find an explanation other than it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t think the Doctor would accept that as an answer, not right now, and that was how Jack knew he was not fine, but how to tell him that? 

“What do you think will happen?” asked the Doctor, “It’s not like it can ruin us. Like you said, it will always just be you and me.”

The hand bunched in the front of Jack’s shirt was pulling him forward, and Jack really didn’t know how long he could keep pulling away.


	4. Owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack/11 slash   
> It's a little brutal. D/s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if it's confusing or too dragged out.

Jack groaned into the Doctor’s mouth. He couldn’t help it. It was so pliant. He scrubbed his fingers through the Doctor’s scalp and gripped a fist full of his thick, dark hair, pulling his head back. Jack got up on his knees to loom over the Doctor and crush down against his mouth. A whimper escaped between them, and Jack bit into his lip with a cruel smirk. In all of his fantasies and imaginings, Jack had always pictured himself being the one tossed about, the one who was dominated, even if just a little, but those had all been for the other two regenerations. This one was different. This one Jack wanted under him, withering and gasping.

He moved his mouth down, brushing his lips over the Doctor’s sizable jaw and onto his neck. It was almost sweet tasting. In the back of his mind, he vaguely wondered if it was somehow the jammie dodger’s fault. The skin of the Doctor’s neck was perfect--pale and smooth and so soft. It offered Jack’s mouth no resistance as he sucked on it. It purpled too quickly for his liking. His teeth scraped the Doctor just above the juncture of his throat and shoulder as far down as the collar of his shirt would allow. Constant ragged breathing clouded the air around them, and as teeth sank into his skin, the Doctor moaned too loud to be entirely pleasurable. Jack let up, knowing by the copper taste he bit too deep, but the Doctor’s skin was just so needy, so easily malleable under his mouth it was difficult to resist biting too hard again. 

“Jack,” gasped the Doctor in far more of a moan than a word.

He hooked one finger in the collar of Jack’s shirt and timidly pulled at him. Jack got the message and detached himself, moving back up to kiss him. Kiss was inaccurate. It was all gnashing teeth. Jack held his head, forcing him closer and holding him still as Jack attacked him. It wasn’t enough. 

Hands pressed against the Doctor’s chest and dug under his suspenders, sliding one off and snapping the other. The Doctor jumped and squeaked in surprise. Jack smirked again and pulled that one off as well. His hands dug down and pressed over the Doctor’s crotch. Jack made an animalistic sound as he rubbed and stroked the hot hardness he found constrained, reveling in the involuntary jerks that wracked the Doctor’s body.

“Unbutton your shirt,” growled Jack.

The Doctor caught his breath and blinked several times, trying to concentrate and control his fingers. He started with the middle button, then the next down. He lost his grip on the third as Jack licked up his throat, forcing his head back again, and pinched the head of his erection through his pants. 

“Focus.”

Both of Jack’s hands yanked and pulled at the Doctor’s belt and then his dress pants, breaking apart the zipper. He raised his gaze to the Doctor’s horridly plaid shirt, gripped it, and ripped up the rest of the buttons except the very top one. The Doctor’s hands went to it, but Jack grabbed them and laced their fingers together.

“No,” he ordered in a low voice, “Leave it on.”

He wedged himself between the Doctor’s legs, forcing them apart with his knees and shoving the Doctor’s hands between the sofa cushions behind his head. 

“Keep your hands there.”

Sitting back, Jack took a few seconds to take in the sight before him. It was glorious. Hands above and back, legs spread, pants open, the Doctor looked at him with heavy, dilated eyes and his mouth open. His bottom lip was bruising, and one side of his neck was purple and red, chest heaving. 

One thing was missing. Jack slowly parted the Doctor’s loose shirt, and it opened like a curtain to reveal flesh so pale it was almost glaring. Jack pressed his hands flat on the skin before him, skin as soft and delicate as his neck. Untouched skin. Jack dug his nails in and scraped down below the Doctor’s undone pants line and forcing the elastic of his boxers out of the way until dark, curly hairs gathered under his fingernails. The Doctor hissed, throwing his head back against the leather, but didn’t move, not even as Jack repeated the motion again and again. 

He parted the Doctor’s shirt further and bent to take one bright pink nipple into his mouth, sucking painfully hard, but Jack was starting to think the Doctor wasn’t adverse to pain. His hand returned to the Doctor’s crotch and squeezed. The Doctor bucked up into him. Jack clenched his jaw around the nipple and gripped him. The man under him cried out. Gradually it died to constant moans and whimpers of his name.

Jack rumbled in his throat, “I’ve had enough.”

He reached around the Doctor and grabbed the back waistband of his pants, yanking them down and out from under their owner. The fingers snapped the top of boxers and grabbed them too. Jack leaned back to allow the Doctor’s legs to close and tore the pants and underwear free, throwing them almost angrily off to the side out of view. Wrapping his fingers around the Doctor’s ankles, Jack placed them on either side of his thighs, reached up, and spread the Doctor’s knees, pushing them flat on the floor. Still obedient, the Doctor’s hands remained jammed between the cushions behind his head. He blinked.

The heat that drove Jack forward dissipated somewhat as they locked eyes. The look the Doctor was giving him stalled his hands as they tried to grip at the body underneath him. It was fear, raw, vulnerable fear. Jack gently trailed his fingers up the Doctor’s chest and lightly brushed them over his windpipe. The Doctor closed his eyes and tilted his head back a fraction to allow Jack to touch him. One wrong move or word and Jack was sure the Doctor would shatter in his hands. 

Jack leaned forward and placed kisses along his sternum and further up, making sure to be gentle over the bruising of his neck. 

“Doctor,” Jack whispered into his ear, “Doctor, you are beautiful, so beautiful.” Jack drug his tongue over the shell of his ear, “Please let me have you.”

Eyes still closed, the Doctor tilted his head towards him and nodded. Jack looked up and captured his lips again, but this time it was slow and careful. The taste of the Doctor, it was something he had wanted his whole life without knowing. He bit the Doctor’s lip with a scraping of his teeth, but when it elicited a moan, Jack latched his mouth on the fresh, creamy side of the Doctor’s neck and clamped his hands around the man’s hips, holding him firmly in place as Jack leaned forward and ground against him.

The Doctor gasped and tried to buck up against him, but the hands that held him dug into a bone-cracking grip. It didn’t last long. Jack was losing patience with himself. Finally he leaned down, bit too hard at one of the Doctor’s nipples, and put his hands around the man’s ankles again. He brought them together and pushed the Doctor’s knees flat the rest of the way.

He wrapped is hand around the abused throat and said, “Don’t move.”

The Doctor rasped in a breath through parted, swollen lips and didn’t move.

Jack pushed away from him and began to strip, not caring for buttons or even stitching it seemed. His clothes crashed into the floor and shoes with a thud each. He was nearly rid of his pants when he heard the Doctor’s hesitant breath.

“Jack… your belt.”

The Doctor raised his clasped hands slowly from between the cushions and let them hover an inch above, unsure if he was allowed to give suggestions.

Jack snatched his belt off the floor with a sideways grin and placed a foot in the circle of the Doctor’s bare legs to kneel. He wrapped and twisted the dark brown leather around the Doctor’s thin wrists and latched them together. He pushed them back into the couch so they remained above the Doctor’s head. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, and he stood to snatch the condoms and bottle of lube behind them off the shelf. Getting back down on his knees, he sat back on his ankles and dropped the items to the floor beside them. He reached around the Doctor’s thighs, grabbed just under his butt cheeks, and lifted him up onto Jack’s lap. The Doctor’s breath hitched to near panic. Jack pressed lips to his collar bone as he reached down and wrapped his fingers around the Doctor’s length. As the man whimpered, Jack felt him grow more solid in his hand.

Off to the side, Jack’s left hand fumbled with opening the lube and squeezing it onto his fingers. His grip on the Doctor was almost too tight as it moved over him, his thumb rubbing circles into the head on the upstroke. He had no idea what the sex drive of a Time Lord was like or if the Doctor had been with anyone in the last ten years, but Jack found him more than easy to rev. Just a few strokes had the alien rocking desperately in his grip, rutting into his hand like some possessed animal. Twice Jack let up and let go to keep the Doctor from cutting the entire thing short. Jack wanted to taste him, to feel the heavy heat on his tongue and press himself down until it pushed into his throat. The slick leak that dripped down the head belonged on Jack’s lips, but he was absolutely sure the Doctor would come in his mouth in under a minute. As much as he liked the thought, he needed more. 

Slick fingers reached between them. The Doctor was so spread over Jack’s lap, his opening was already exposed. Jack extended his middle finger and ran its tip over the pucker. 

“Jack,” the Doctor’s voice was alarmed.

He leaned forward as far as he could in the awkward position to look down and see what Jack was doing to him. Jack touched him again, pulling another gasp from Doctor.

“Has anyone done this to you before?” asked Jack. 

The Doctor shook his head. This had never been one of his interests, but then he seemed to rethink.

“Once,” he gasped, “I was sixteen.”

“Do you remember what it felt like?”

Jack stroked the Doctor’s length, which he noticed had not diminished, and pushed just the end of his finger in. The Doctor’s knee jerked as he squeaked. Seized by a sudden need to claim him, Jack pushed the rest of his finger in to the knuckle. The Doctor gave a shout he muffled himself, biting into his arm, but a couple seconds later he was straining to see what Jack was doing to him again. Jack withdrew his finger and pushed it back in.

“I asked you a question.”

The Doctor whimpered, biting his own sore lip.

“A little. I only… let him once. He… talked me into it.”

Jack’s finger was not as warm as he expected, wrapped in the Doctor’s body, but then he remembered Time Lords had a lower body temperature. He felt around the velvet skin, but didn’t find what he was looking for. 

“Who was it?” 

Jack removed his finger again, and this time pushed in two all the way down. The noise that escaped the Doctor sounded more like a sob as he threw himself back and arched. 

“Who?”

“Master.”

Jack froze. The only person to have the Doctor so completely was the Master, the madman who had tortured them for a year, the psychopath who had refused to regenerate and deliberately left the Doctor alone. The Doctor had begged, cried, and screamed to get him back, and the Master had left. That monster didn’t get to have the Doctor. 

“Now it will be me. Now you remember me, think about me every time something or someone touches you here.” Jack pushed his fingers in harder and wiggled them to punctuate his words. “You are my body, my pleasure, my Doctor.”

“Thank you.”

Jack blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that reply. The boiling in his blood mellowed to a simmer again. He leaned forward and sucked on the divot in the Doctor’s collar bone. His fingers still twisted and stretched the tight ring they intruded in.

“Turn,” whispered the Doctor, “Turn… your hand around. It’s higher in the back.”

Jack did as instructed. His fingers creeped up the back of the Doctor’s passage, and when Jack thought perhaps his fingers weren’t long enough, he felt the soft skin give way to a thicker, stronger flesh. The Doctor bucked harder than before.

“God, yes, Jack, that. Do that.”

Jack smirked as he sucked on the Doctor’s ear and set a slow rhythm with both his hands, stroking inside him and out. The Doctor closed his eyes and hung his head back, moaning without shame. He panted nonstop, rocking in the hands that held him, lost in pleasure. Jack stopped sucking and nibbling at him, distracted by the beauty he held. The Doctor was entrancing, his body never still for a moment, mouth open, begging to be filled and choked.

Jack took a deep breath, trying to control himself. He withdrew his hand, noting with a sadistic satisfaction the frustrated groan that escaped the Doctor as he opened his eyes to look at him, his breathing still labored. Jack hooked one finger in the Doctor’s hole and pulled at it.

“Do you want more fingers or do you want to choke on me?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows raised, and he blinked several times before answering.

“Both.”

Jack chuckled softly, and said, “Do you think you’re that lucky?”

“I think you—“ The Doctor shrieked as Jack shoved three fingers in him. “—you want both.”

Jack growled. He sat up into a kneeling position, his neglected length jutting from his body, a sticky thread getting ever longer dripping from the end. He let go of the Doctor’s erection, and put his hand under the man’s knee, pushing it up and against the Doctor’s chest and pinning it there with the side of his hip. Shoving three fingers all the way inside him, digging further in, Jack buried his other hand in the Doctor’s hair and pulled his head forward. 

Hesitation slowed the Doctor’s movements as he found himself with Jack’s cock inches from his face. Jack drew him closer and rubbed the tip over the man’s half purple lip, making it shine. 

“Open up, Doc.” 

The Doctor did as he was told. When his lips were far enough apart, Jack slid his cock over the Doctor's tongue, making sure to spread the pre-cum over his taste buds. Jack pushed further in until he met resistance. The Doctor gaged around him and closed his lips, but Jack noted, a little impressed, he didn't move his hands to push Jack away or try to pull back. The fingers left the Doctor’s body for a more favorable spot on the back of his neck.

"Open your mouth," Jack told him without withdrawing, his tone more dangerous than before. 

Jack watched as the Doctor struggled to control his gag reflex. He gently stroked the man's hair in stark contrast to the cruelty that rose in him as the Doctor's face reddened. Finally he leaned back ever so slightly, and the Doctor gasped in with such force a sharp pain pricked his lung. Jack didn't let him move and only gave him a few seconds to get his breath back before re-asserting his grip on the dark hair and pulling him forward.

"Now you can suck on it."

Immediately the Doctor adjusted his angle. If he had done this before, it was over a thousand years ago, so Jack gave him a minute to figure it out. 

Jack drew in a breath and let it out in a groan. The Doctor hadn’t needed the full minute to get suction, and he drew Jack into him. His eyes opened half way as his lips smoothed over the cock in his mouth. When he came to the end, he stuck his tongue in the slit to see how far he could get it in. His disappointment at not getting far at all was blanketed by a stronger version of what he assumed was the taste of Jack but now he thought might have been the flavor of the drip. With just the head in his mouth, the Doctor sucked and then sucked harder. He wanted more to be certain, wanted enough to commit the taste to memory, but Jack's hand tightened in his hair, and he figured he should move on. He trailed his mouth down the side of Jack's cock to the base and then repeated with the other side.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"I," the Doctor panted, swallowing his ragged breathing, "I've never done this.... Sorry, I don't know...."

"You don't need to know."

The Doctor was yanked, and Jack slammed himself back into his throat. The Doctor's whole torso convulsed. Jack just worked his way in a little further, not caring that the Doctor's face was crushed into his lower abdomen. He rocked, allowing the man on the floor tiny gasps of breath between each small thrust. 

The Doctor's lips were swollen and shined and his face a growing red. Watching as he desperately tried to keep up with what Jack wanted, whatever he wanted, simply left Jack with the need to give him more of a challenge. 

Jack placed a hand on the Doctor's forehead and pushed his head back against the couch, pinning him. He wrapped his other hand around the Doctor's heaving neck and braced his knee up on the couch. He let his erection fall on the Doctor’s lips, and like such a good boy, he opened his mouth, and Jack took him. 

No noise escaped the Doctor as Jack fucked his throat. Perhaps a gurgle or a gasp would pollute the air, and Jack would make sure to pummel him harder, closing his eyes. The Doctor squirmed, his heels scraping off on the carpet, stomach muscles contracting and rippling, his arms making too much of a fuss even buckled under his head. Moisture gathered around the Doctor’s eyes and ran onto the leather of the sofa. It felt good to Jack, of course it did, but he got far more pleasure from violently using him. He pushed down his Doctor’s throat again. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, reveling in the constriction and the knowledge of where he was, but soon the Doctor was more than gaging; he was suffocating. Jack didn’t move, not until he felt the Doctor’s hands push him back. Finally Jack had taken him far enough to pull his hands out, still belted together, and try to make Jack stop. 

Jack looked down at him and paused. He pulled clear of the Doctor and watched him gasp and frantically try to swallow before the next onslaught. Jack’s hands turned gentle and soft, and the Doctor, head still craned back, opened his eyes to look at him. Jack lowered himself onto the carpet. He reached out and carefully cupped the Doctor’s head, raising it upright. The Doctor blinked at him, a drop of moisture running down his cheek. Jack smoothed his thumb over the Doctor’s lips to wipe away the trickle of blood trying to run to his chin. The split in his lip was wider than Jack thought. Blood oozed up again. Jack wiped it and pressed his thumb over the cut. He touched the tear that had fallen on the Doctor’s face and smoothed it away.

“I’m sorry,” Jack told him, “I should have been paying closer attention.”

The Doctor didn’t volunteer any arguments. Jack pulled his finger from the Doctor’s very swollen lip and kissed him, a sweet kiss.

“You did so well,” Jack mumbled, and before he could do anything else, the Doctor was kissing him back, perhaps not as gently, but Jack doubted his lips could take much more.

“Please,” the Doctor said quietly, “Do it.”

Needing no more encouragement, Jack kissed his way down the Doctor’s chest and stomach and licked his soft length. The Doctor’s breath hitched as he watched Jack take him in his mouth. Jack fumbled with the lube, and the Doctor was touched intimately again, a finger parting him. Even with the throbbing in his face and throat from the abuse, it took as little time as it had before to get the Doctor solid in his mouth. Jack teased him with his teeth and added another finger.

“That’s not what I want, Jack.”

The immortal smirked and sat up, breaking contact with the man before him. He reached for the box of condoms, but the Doctor leaned over and with his belted hands, grabbed it and threw it across the office. Jack gritted his teeth in thought. Condoms had always been a rule of his, but if he was honest, whatever the Doctor wanted he got. Jack grabbed the lube and slicked his own length, then squeezed more onto his fingers and rubbed it over and through the Doctor’s entrance. The Doctor sat straighter, his gaze getting more intense.

“Nervousness is okay,” Jack said, picking him up again and setting him in his lap, “Sure you’re ready?”

The Doctor nodded without hesitation. Jack reached between them and pushed the head of his cock into the Doctor’s body, parting and stretching his hole. The Doctor drew his belted hands over Jack’s head and around the back of his neck, gripping Jack’s hair like a handle. He gasped and tensed as Jack pushed, widening him further every second. Jack clenched the Doctor’s hips and held him closer, pulling him increasingly onto the intrusion until Jack was held tight within his body. Jack rocked him a little to make sure he couldn’t get in any more, but the movement nearly panicked the Doctor.

“Jack, Jack—“

“Shhh, I know, not yet.”

Jack’s arms wrapped around the Doctor’s torso. It was a strong embrace, one that promised security and safety. Jack kissed the less abused corner of the Doctor’s mouth, his tongue running lightly over the sensitive skin. The Doctor opened his mouth to let Jack do what he would. The trust he gave was nearly palpable, and Jack honestly didn’t know how to handle it. He splayed his hands on the Doctor’s back as he kissed him and kneaded his tense muscles under the flap of the white shirt, working his way lower. He flattened his hands over the Doctor’s ass and under it, and lifted him not even an inch. The Doctor went rigid but relaxed as Jack lowered him back down. When no protest came, Jack repeated the movement only higher. And again. And then the Doctor was slowly doing it himself. Jack held still and allowed him.

“Why…” the Doctor started, pressing his forehead to Jack’s without stopping, “Why is it so hot?”

Jack raised his eyebrows, but then realized the Doctor around him was significantly less warm than any other being he’d been with. He wrapped his arms around the Doctor, held him as close as possible, and turned, leaning down to carefully lie the Doctor on the floor, keeping his shirt as a barrier between his skin and rough carpet.

“Different body heats remember?” Jack asked.

The Doctor blinked and swallowed, a sharp pain to his throat, trying to collect his thoughts. He nodded, knowing Jack was right.

With one more kiss over the Doctor’s bloodied lip, Jack pulled the Doctor’s hands out from around Jack’s neck and placed them above the Doctor’s head on the floor. Jack sat up and back, pulling free from the body beneath him. Jack laughed at the frustrated glare he received and thrust back in. The Doctor arched his back with a groan. 

“Does that mean you’re ready for a good fuck, Doctor?” 

The Doctor sucked on the inside of his cheek.

“I want an answer to that, words.”

The Doctor groaned again and said in exasperation, “Yes, Jack, fuck me.”

Jack slammed into him. 

“Dirty talk form the Doctor? How many people have heard that before?”

An answer was not forthcoming. Jack dug his fingers into his friend’s hips one more time and held him still. The lack of heat in the Doctor’s body did nothing to keep him at bay as he had hoped. He tried to ignore the Doctor’s unabashed moaning as Jack fucked him into the floor, but it was something he knew he’d never get out of his head. Jack pushed himself up, struggling to find the spot he had been shown. And then the Doctor screamed. Not a loud moan, not a yell, a scream. Jack froze.

“Doctor, tell—“

“No, Jack, please, Jack, go… go.”

The Doctor tried to pick his pelvis up off the floor, but Jack pinned him, eyes wide. He thrust twice more, and the Doctor screamed again. It was such a naked scream, Jack stalled, but the Doctor was not allowing it. With more strength than Jack knew he had, the Doctor picked his hips up against Jack’s grip and pushed onto him. When the Time Lord decided Jack could have back control, he rested on the floor, and Jack returned to beating his insides. Jack’s thrusts became more accurate, and the Doctor mellowed from screaming to a near constant sob. Occasionally Jack’s name bumble out.

Jack couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man, a man with all of time and space at his every whim, a man who possessed more knowledge than any other singular being in the universe, exposed and spread out on the floor, wrapped around Jack like he might die if he didn’t get Jack’s cum inside him.

Jack groaned. This was not lasting as long as he wanted. He released one of the Doctor’s hips and wrapped his hand around the Doctor’s weeping length. He tried to stroke him in time to the thrusts but couldn’t focus enough, couldn’t coordinate. The Doctor bucked into his hand, the strength he exhibited earlier leaking out uncontrolled. 

“Doctor… do you want me to cum in you? I bet you’ll feel the heat of it inside you even after I’ve left.”

The words came out with difficulty. He wasn’t expecting an answer either. The Doctor was too far gone for that, but the drunken look he gave Jack through slits in his eyes showed he was listening at least. The Doctor’s body shuttered violently. For a second Jack was alarmed, and then he registered pulsing in his hand. Jack gasped as the Doctor’s entrance clamped down on him. Back arched, a silent scream on his lips, the Doctor shuttered a second time, and emptied himself over his own stomach. 

Watching the Doctor cum was more than Jack could handle at that moment. His hand slid free and braced him on the floor. He slammed into the tight hole that held him over and over, trying to get as deep as he possible could and finally came, an orgasm that pulled noises he had no memory of ever making before. 

Jack lowered himself down to his elbows and rested his forehead against the Doctor’s chest, reveling in the shocks that still rocked his body. Even fevered, the Doctor’s skin was cool on his face, and he was thankful for it. He panted, taking in the familiar smell of sex and something else, something that was vaguely familiar.

Fingers threaded through his hair and rested on his head. Jack sighed and pushed himself back up to look down on his Doctor. He hadn’t heard his belt come undone from around the Doctor’s wrists and flop to the floor, but he didn’t much care. Raw, red lines crisscrossed and encircled the Doctor’s wrists. Jack took the Doctor’s hands in his and leaned down to kiss them, but the Doctor pulled one away. With mild fascination, Jack watched as a single finger of the Doctor’s trailed through the shine on his stomach, gathering cum as it went. The Doctor held his hand out to Jack, who needed no explanation. He held the hand in his and drug his tongue up the dirtied finger. He closed his mouth around it and gently sucked. This was the familiar smell. He knew it from living on the TARDIS with the first regeneration he’d known. He wondered how many of the Doctor’s traveling companions had smelled his cum without knowing what it was. Jack groaned around it.

“Yes, I can feel it,” whispered the Doctor, his voice hoarse, “No, don’t leave me.”

And there it was, the vulnerability that reminded Jack he was supposed to be caring for this man who had, after nearly twelve hundred years, fallen apart. Guilt and disgust crashed into him. Jack crawled up the Doctor’s body and softly pressed their lips together one more time. 

“I’ll get something to clean you up with,” Jack told him.

The Doctor’s arms snaked around Jack’s chest, and the Time Lord rasped, “No, just stay here.”

As much as Jack knew he should probably bathe the Doctor and dress him in something more than a lopsided bow tie and horribly wrinkled shirt that, if he was honest, might never button again, Jack simply just couldn’t refuse anything the Doctor asked of him. So instead of properly taking care, Jack removed himself from atop the man, reached over for his long coat, and threw it over them. The Doctor seemed to think it was good enough. He rolled into Jack’s side and buried his face. Before Jack finished straightening his coat, the Doctor was asleep.


	5. Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zaneta, I don't know who you are, but I like you. Thanks.
> 
> This sets up the second half, so my apologies if it gets a bit drawling.

Where the blankets came from, the Doctor had no clue. Jack was good at making things appear when they were needed. The Doctor scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing away the grime. The red cuts and welts from Jack’s belt had faded to pink lines already. He blushed at the memory, hugging his blanket to his chest. A thought, an urgent thought, occurred to him, and he dropped his blanket, hands going to his red bow tie. One side was pulled far larger than it should have been, and the loop around his neck was loose enough to allow part of his collar to slip through. Suppressing a groan, he tugged at the tie. It unraveled and slid away. The first button somehow had maintained its integrity, so he did up the second one for good measure and folded down the collar before retying his bow tie with fluid, practiced movements.

Carefully he stood, the blanket and Jack’s coat falling away. The brisk air brushed all his nakedness, and he spun on the spot, frantically searching for his pants. They had somehow landed on the other side of Jack’s desk. Scuttling over, fearing the possible pain of a too large step, he carefully scooped them up and shimmied into his briefs, but looking down, even in the dark he could see something was wrong. 

Blots marred his skin, dark, almost black against the pale. Carefully he ran the tips of his fingers over the spots. Most were flat, a couple were rough, and all were sore. Hickies, he realized. Along the curves of his hips and on the flat of his stomach under his belly button. He pulled away the waist band. The dark circles had been placed of the tops of his thighs and the insides of his thighs, from the knees as high up as they would go into junctures and folds all around and between him. 

He swallowed hard and set the elastic back down. Blinking several times, he rubbed a hand over his mouth. What level of oblivion must he have been in to not know that Jack had been so thorough with him? He swallowed again and reached for his pants. The rest of the buttons of his shirt came next, and he did them quickly to cover all teeth marks and nipple bruises. One sock, two, and his shoes, thankfully still tucked away by the end of the couch where he’d left them first day. Shoving his feet inside, he neglected to lace them or put on his recovered socks. Pulling up his red suspender straps, he spun on the spot. His jacket, there it was, folded over some books in the corner. He threw it on, padded the pocket to make sure his psychic paper was still there, and walked over to Jack’s desk. Without a sound he plucked up his sonic and shoved it in his pocket. What was left?

His eyes fell on Jack, sleeping Jack, who had been with many people. Surely they’d snuck out on him often. Jack probably did the sneaking himself at least half the time. Knowing it was inadequate, knowing by the wriggle in his gut it was a horrible thing to do, the Doctor took a sticky note off Jack’s desk, folded it in half, picked up a red pen lying about, and scrawled a couple words. With silent, calculated footsteps, he walked around to Jack and crouched down by him. 

Jack was always good looking, no one would argue that, but sleeping, hair over his eyes, face meshed into his arm, and the blanket not quite covering his shoulder, Jack looked sweet. He gave no indication of the man who had split the Doctor’s lip pounding his throat. 

The Doctor looked around, as if someone standing close could hear such thoughts. With a deep breath, he tucked the sticky note into Jack’s hand and went to stand, but the long, blue coat caught his gaze. The Doctor reached over, curled his fingers into the tough fabric, and stood, carefully pulling the garment free from the second blanket. Grasping both sides of the collar, he pulled it to his mouth and slowly breathed in Jack’s scent. 

Calmness washed over him but also sadness. Jack was important, of course he was. The Doctor’s last regeneration may not have treated him the best or acknowledged all that Jack had done, but this man had always been important, always been cared for and missed. And no matter how bad the Doctor was at showing it, Jack hadn’t hesitated when a new face showed up, fraying and desperate. Very seriously, the Doctor contemplated taking Jack’s coat with him. He couldn’t bring the man; it was clear he’d never leave his team, and the Doctor couldn’t stay. He almost never stayed, and the last time had been with Amy and Rory. 

The Doctor closed his eyes and took one last deep breath before gently setting the coat back on the floor. No more glances or thoughts or slow steps. It wasn’t until he saw that the hub was dark and empty that he realized he hadn’t known what time it was. It could have been midday, and he wouldn’t have known. As quietly as he could, he closed Jack’s office door and tried to hurry down the steps, but the first two stalled him. 

Yes, he was definitely sore, but he had been expecting more of a sharp pain, a sear that was deep and would shame him with every step. Instead it was a little like a burn, but the good kind, the kind that came with the first of Jack’s fingers to enter him. The Doctor’s lips parted a fraction further with every step. Adjusting his jacket like he’d somehow been disheveled, he walked across the hub to the concrete rolling door and its bars. Figuring he was far enough from Jack to risk it, he pulled out his sonic and made his way through to the lift. At the top, he was once again relieved to see that Ianto wasn’t on guard at night. The Doctor had never asked what the actual Torchwood schedule was supposed to be. He opened the front door and closed his eyes.

The night air soothed his lungs and throat and skin and mind. It felt like freedom. The TARDIS was a couple miles away so he had time to savor it. On his way, he did everything he could to think of the future, what he would do next. He wouldn’t think of Jack or what the morning held for him. Besides, that was all conjecture. Jack could wake up, shrug, and boss his friends around. That was perfectly reasonable.

He wasn’t to know for sure that Jack would wake up with a stupid grin and roll over on the office floor to find a blanket and his coat in a pile. For the first few seconds he would be in denial and think the Time Lord went to wash up or was drinking coffee with Gwen, and then Jack would notice a vacant spot by the arm of the sofa where the Doctor’s boots had been. He would see only his clothes littering the floor and the sonic vanished from his desk, and when he swallowed the abandonment and fought the tears on the rim of his vision, he would notice a crinkle in his hand. He’d look down, open his fingers, read the words, and crumble. Jack would wrap himself in his blanket and lie down. The Doctor was difficult to deal with and far worse to understand. Sometimes he made hard decisions and sometimes he made mistakes, but never was the Doctor cruel, most especially not to his friends. But he’d always grudgingly been friends with Jack, hadn’t he? And when his thoughts could beat him no more, Jack would sob into his pillow and flick away the paper that made him nothing, its words clearly visible to Ianto when he came in search of his absent friend: Thanks –Doctor.

~ 

A distress beechen, how typical. Who would respond to all these people if he wasn’t around? The Doctor rolled his eyes and threw a lever. The TARDIS’ lights flickered, and she hummed, the time rotor beginning to drum through the console. Dancing through his steam punk TARDIS, the Doctor gathered his clothing from the railings and stairs, socks and underwear mostly. When he travelled alone, he had little care for sorting and organizing and drawers. If no one was there to complain or make him feel guilty, he was going to take advantage of it. 

He had just enough time to make a pile before the deep tones of landing made him perk up. He took one quick lap around the console, glancing at readings and scans, and when nothing alarming struck him, he dashed to the doors and opened them. Immediately he noticed the sky was wrapped around the ground much too closely. Nearly forty percent of the rocky land before him was horizon, and the rest had jagged peaks that blocked his sight. They weren’t mountains because they seemed to be all one material and not nearly wide enough. He hopped a few times. The gravity was artificial. He was on an asteroid. Hands in his pockets, he started along. Metal glinted behind a couple of the spires, and he thought perhaps it was a crashed ship or some building not well cared for.

It took him a half hour to get there. Why the TARDIS had landed so far was a mystery. Solidly planted in the stone was the skeleton of a crashed transport ship. Several steps to the side, he saw two more ships upturned and half buried. He wrung his hands, biting the corner of his lip. The ships had been here for a hundred years easy, mined for resources. Had he landed too far in time from the beechen? Were the survivors long dead?

Echoing rattles reached his ears.

“Hello?” he called, craning his neck to see through the wreckage, “Is there someone there?”

No reply came, only rustling and banging.

“I…” started the Doctor, carefully climbing through twisted metal, “I received a distress signal. I’m here to help. Who’s there?”

Light pats and taps came next, and the wind knocked out of him. Something hit him around the middle and latched on, almost taking him down. A tiny person stepped into his view, two tiny people, one on either side of him. Children, he realized. The Doctor looked down at himself and saw a little girl clinging to him. Before he knew what he was doing, he held his arms out to the other children and slowly knelt to their level. One of them was a boy and the other a girl. Slowly they walked to him, their feet bare and clothes covered in dust and reeking like waste. 

“Come here,” he said softly, looking form one tiny face to the next, “Come here, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

They were somewhere the ages of three and five, and the one still hugged into him was definitely the smallest. When the other two were within arms’ reach, he put his hands on their shoulders and pulled them closer. He mouthed words, but none of them made sense to ask children, and he couldn’t settle on what question was most important.

Finally, he said, “Are you all alright?”

He was simply looked at with six big eyes. 

“Is there anyone else here?”

They blinked. One of them backed up, turned, and walked away. 

“Okay,” the Doctor said, gathering one kid in each arm and hoisting them up onto his hips. 

Picking his way through fallen and jagged metal, the Doctor followed the little boy.

“Be careful,” he called, “No, don’t go so far. Stay close.”

The boy ignored him or couldn’t hear. Speeding up, the Doctor tried to not overbalance himself or squeeze the kids in his arms too tightly. They felt brittle. The child he was following led him to a hatch in the middle of all the wreckage and pointed down. The Doctor walked to the edge and knelt again, setting the kids lightly on their feet. He whipped out his sonic screwdriver, brought it down to the hatch, and pushed the button. Its high drone filled the air as he traced the light around the metal. All the children stepped back. The hatch creaked and popped, metal slamming up dust. 

The children scattered, all running in different directions.

“No, wait, stay!” 

They had disappeared through the shadows. He stood and turned on the spot again, hands in the air. No sound of any kind reached him. With a sigh, he crouched, dug his fingers into the metal plate, and lifted. It scraped and ground as he hefted it away to reveal a shoot carved down into the asteroid, wood planks nailed at intervals for a ladder. With one more glance around to make sure the children were still gone, he lowered himself in and began to climb down.

After a few feet he could see nothing but black. Several feet later, his right foot unexpectedly collided with the ground, jarring his knee. Cautiously he stepped around and pulled out a tiny torch from his jacket, clicked it, and shined around himself. The tunnel was as narrow as the shoot he climbed down, stone close in on three sides of him, the passage before him dark beyond sight. He wanted to call a questioning hello, but this was more than eerie. Something was wrong. It was more than quiet; it was dead silent. 

Creeping along, his boots crunched on ground. It didn’t seem like many people travelled this way. The tunnel was definitely carved more than dug. 

He heard rustling again, then padding, and the dirty face a boy entered his light. The Doctor stopped and reached his hand out, but the boy gestured for him to come. One step, two, the Doctor cautiously followed. Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a room filled with beaten trunks and crates, and on the other side was a poorly fitted metal door, and the boy was nowhere to be seen. The Doctor switched hands with his torch and pulled out his sonic. Green light barely touched the air when the door rattled and scraped its way inward. A man’s face appeared, gaunt and thickly bearded. He looked the Doctor up and down, and a smile twisted under the messy hairs.

The Doctor took a step back, swallowed, and said, “The kids, there are kids out there. And a boy down here. Do… do they have families?”

The man didn’t answer. He stepped aside, but the Doctor didn’t move.

“I picked up a distress call. That’s why I’m here. My ship—“ The Time Lord licked his lips nervously, rubbing his thumbs over the tips of his fingers. “My ship is large enough for all of you to fit, no matter how many are here. I can take you wherever you want.”

The man’s hand came up and gestured for the Doctor to enter and proceed down the corridor.

“The children…” started the Doctor, but he looked around himself and saw no one and no means of escape, “Right.”

The Doctor proceeded through the door and passed the man, who made move to follow him but motioned for him to continue. This room held boxes of some sort, all covered with ratty blankets. At the next door, he didn’t bother to use the sonic. It opened when he was close enough to reach out and touch it. It was another man, also overly bearded. He stepped aside, ignoring the Doctor’s awkward gestures behind him.

“Forward, okay,” he mumbled, and moved on, but beyond this time, the room was vast and separated with curtains. Finally here there seemed to be basic noise: water in pipes, heating or cooling, a pen somewhere scratching away at paper, footsteps. A third man walked out from behind a hung a sheet, but he was more kept and as hygienic as this place would allow.

“Well,” he said, eyeing the Doctor up and down, his voice higher than expected, “Middle aged scientists, often older, and lately children since that mission ship landed to ‘help,’” he put his hands up in air quotes with a smirk, “But you--you are perfect. How old are you?”

“Twelve hundred and seven,” replied the Doctor, “The children are from a mission ship. So they have no parents. Do you know where the ship was coming from, or going I suppose?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” said the man, then he frowned, “What do you mean children? You should have just seen the boy.”

The Doctor hesitated, his mouth noiselessly moving, “I assumed since there was one, there would be others.”

He guessed he wasn’t believed by the skeptical look he was given. 

“The children don’t last long, only boys left now, but you…” he paced a circle around the Doctor, “You are good for any taste. Are there any more of you?”

“I… I came to respond to a distress signal—“

“Yes, they all do. Is there anyone with you?”

“No, I’m alone.”

“Shame, but I suppose that means we won’t have to worry about someone with firepower coming to look for you. Your ship will have supplies.”

“Actually, Torchwood will be looking for me. Torchwood—they fight with guns and have the time vortex on their side.”

The man waved him off. 

The Doctor asked, “What is your name?”

“Did I offer my name?”

“…No.”

“Then I’m not going to tell you, and I certainly didn’t give you permission to ask. I think you’ll just call me…” 

The man stepped forward and touched his fingers to the Doctor’s forehead. It was fast. He only got into the Doctor’s consciousness for half a second, but the surface thoughts were pulled from him.

“Jack… Master… Rory. I don’t think Rose would do. I think we’ll go with Rory. You find him loving and kind. Yes, Rory. Galger!” 

The bearded man at the door stood straighter to listen.

“There are children on the surface. Two of them are girls. If you find the three of them, you may keep one for yourself.”

Galger’s eyebrows rose, and dashed out the door.

“Look, my ship had much more space than it seems. I can take you wherever you need to go. There’s no need for violence. I’m sure a deal can be made.”

“A deal?” the man laughed, “The only thing you offer of value is something I intend to take already.”

He hooked a finger up under the bow tie and pulled the Doctor forward. The Doctor slapped his hand away and straightened it, irritation all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something scathing, he was sure, but the wind knocked out of him. The man held the back of his neck and drove his fist into him three times and let go. The Doctor fell to the floor gasping.

“Go open the door to the holding cells.”

The Doctor swallowed his breath and looked around to see who the man was talking to and saw the dirt-streaked boy, who immediately came away from the wall and walked across the room at a brisk pace. 

He passed them, but the man snarled, “You can’t go faster than that?”

The Doctor saw him ball his fist for a punch. Lashing out, the Doctor grabbed the boy around the middle and yanked him down, folding him in. Blows pummeled down on the Doctor’s shoulders and head, but there was no way he’d allow a child beaten if he could do anything, anything at all, about it.


	6. Darker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part is tamer, but towards the ending it is quite gruesome. If you are squeamish, this is probably not for you. Please pay attention to warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part is tamer, but towards the ending it is quite gruesome. If you are squeamish, this is probably not for you. Please pay attention to warnings.

Unlike the rest of what the Doctor had seen of the asteroid, the cells where he had been drug and tossed were easily cut and planted in the rock with at least some expertise. Eventually a solid blow to the head took his consciousness long enough for the man to pull the child form the Doctor’s limp arms and toss him aside. The Doctor lunged for the boy but was punched again. His body was hauled and dragged with a strong punch to the head a few more times to keep him cooperative. They hadn’t bothered to restrain him in any way, just deposited him in the corner with lights in his eyes and a headache he was only beginning to grasp. 

The door clanked and echoed as it slammed close. He scrunched his face as the reverberations tunneled through his skull. He didn’t think he’d ever been hit around the head so many times. Vision faded in and out as he tried to stand, but he had no balance. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back into the corner in an attempt to stabilize himself but instead simply passed out.

The next thing he knew was the clanging of the bars again. Opening his eyes, the Doctor lowered his head down into his hands with a groan, but feeling through his hair, the fractures in his skull were a lot less severe. Silently he thanked his accelerated healing. Stiffness in his neck made moving more painful than strictly necessary as he tried to stretch himself, but all thoughts of his own body were wiped from thought. In the opened door to the cell stood the cleaner man, but the Doctor was looking behind him. Skinny, tiny, naked legs were visible, covered in scrapes and dirt. 

“You are going to be so easy it’s almost not fun,” the man said, “You will strip.”

“What?”

“Strip. I would like your clothes, and it will be easier with you naked.”

The Doctor didn’t move. He was too stunned to even process the words. In his silence, the man moved the child from behind him around front, stooping to place enormous hands on shrunken shoulders. It was the tiny girl who had wrapped herself around the Doctor’s middle. She was clothed in only a loose wrap of material. The Doctor mouthed what again, but stopped himself short of speaking. Instead he held his hand out. She tried to take a step to him, but the fingers dug into her shoulders and upper arms.

“Doctor, that is what you call yourself, correct…? Now, Doctor, I believe you should do what I have already requested.”

Slowly the Doctor raised his eyes to the man’s face, now understanding the threat.

“Yes,” the Doctor breathed, peeling his tweed jacket from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor of the cell, “Okay, just give her to me.”

He gradually stood, fighting the wobbling dizzy that tried to topple him. Closing his eyes and swallowing the nausea, he tugged off his bow tie and let that too fall to the floor as well. Completely vertical now, he continued stripping himself of his own clothing, losing the suspenders, dress shirt, and pants. A flicker of embarrassed shame flitted through him as he pulled down his underwear, but he didn’t let it show. He crouched, inviting back his dizziness, to unlace his boots and stood again, doing his best to keep steady, and kicked them and his pants off. 

“Okay,” he said again, his hands out as if to show he had no weapons, “Okay?”

The man let go of the girl. Dropping to his knees, the Doctor opened his arms, and she ran to him like before, this time putting her frail arms around his neck. The Doctor snatched up his white collared shirt and wrapped it around her like a blanket, holding her against him. 

“Let her stay with me,” said the Doctor, remembering what the man had said about children not lasting long, about there being no more girls, “Anything, just let her be in here with me.”

The man smirked as he casually stepped into the cell, saying, “In here? You want her with you?” He laughed and gestured around them, “Gather the clothes. I need them.” 

The Doctor scrambled to do as he was told, making sure to carefully shake loose the sonic, and the girl didn’t let go. She wasn’t hanging on as tightly to him as she had on the surface, but her arms did not move. He held them out to the man, who took the bundle and reached down to curl his fingers around the collar of the white shirt and roughly tug it free. The girl gasped, and the Doctor held her against him. He watched the man leave, failing to close the bar gates. The Doctor steeled himself to run and fight, but no sooner had the thought occurred to him than the man returned, a second man appearing out of nowhere to close the door and lock them in. He must have just gone a couple feet and turned back around. With sure steps and empty arms, he approached and knelt where the Doctor and the little girl sat entangled. The man reached out and touched the Doctor’s cheek with a smile. He leaned forward and kissed his lips, a shallow kiss between malevolent smiles. The man did it again, but instead of pulling back he whispered, his breath brushing over the Doctor’s lips.

“I think you should send her to the corner. I have had my fill of children; I just want you. Is that a deal?”

“You…” said the Doctor with a rattled breath, “You won’t touch her?”

“If you cooperate with me, no. She can just watch.”

The man smiled again. He latched his hands onto the shoulders of the little girl and ripped her away, shoving her over to the side where she landed with a whimper. It was the first noise the Doctor had heard from her. The man reached for her, for what purpose it wasn’t clear, but the Doctor grabbed the other man’s wrist tight enough to bruise and brought it around to himself. The man seemed surprised by his strength. He chuckled and stood.

“Stand.”

The Doctor obeyed. Gently, almost lovingly, the man’s fingers traced down the Doctor’s neck and over his chest. The hands flattened and smoothed over his sides and hips.

“Unmarked and pale and clean. You even smell wonderful.”

The man leaned forward and trailed the tip of his nose over the Doctor’s ear, hands still braced on his naked hips. The Doctor leaned away, frowning, as if he still didn’t understand what was going on.

“I thought you were going to cooperate.”

The man looked down at the ratty girl who still lie cowering on the floor of the cell, but before any move could be made, the Doctor grabbed the man’s chin, turned him back around, and kissed him. It was desperate for an entirely different reason, like the Doctor was somehow screaming “Look at me! Pay attention to me!” At first the man was immoveable, but in only a couple seconds he was dominating the Doctor’s mouth, messily and slobbery, and the Doctor found it difficult to keep up. The man backed him up against the wall, pressing their bodies together. Hands traveled the Doctor’s torso, greedily looking for anything they could reach. Finally the man broke for air but smoothed his lips along the Doctor’s neck.

“Is that what you want?” asked the Doctor, swallowing hard, trying to keep his breath, “You want me to have sex with you? That will keep her safe?”

Without a response, teeth dug deep into the Doctor’s flesh until it popped open and spilled blood. He cringed at the pain. The man spread it with his tongue all the way up to the Doctor’s ear and down to his collar bone. Both hands travelled his body and roughly grabbed his ass, lifting him onto the balls of his feet and crushing his crotch against the man. Fingers pulled and walked along him until one extended enough to touch his hole. More joined, poking and stroking. The Doctor cringed and instinctively went to shove the man but caught himself last second, curling his fingers in and forcing his hands to flatten against the wall behind him. He tilted his head back against the stone and squeezed his eyes shut. 

One of the hands slid down the back of his thigh, latched behind his knee, and pulled his leg up to hold it around the body on him. A sharp burn made him gasp and fight to not resist. The finger pulled out of him and pushed back in to the first knuckle. He hissed but picked his head up and opened his eyes.

She was watching him, the little girl, from her place on the floor. He didn’t know what to do for her. He pulled his hand slowly from the wall and, looking her in the eyes, pointed to his sonic on the floor in the middle of the room a few feet from her. She didn’t show any signs of acknowledgement. He tried to point better, to draw his finger form her to the sonic, but his arm moved with the constant rocking of his body as a finger moved in and out of him. 

He cried out and gripped the man’s shoulder as a second finger dryly shoved into him. Moisture rimmed his eyes. He swallowed, trying to not make any more noise, lifted his hand from the man’s shoulder, and jabbed his finger as best he could at the sonic. Her eyes shifted, and then she saw something on the floor. She looked at him for instruction, but the man used both fingers to leverage the Doctor open, and the Doctor gasped, slamming his hands down on the man’s shoulders and managing to only hold on rather than attempt to flee. Teeth latched onto one of his nipples, and the fingers started in on him with rough thrusts that nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Through the haze of pain, the Doctor knew he had to keep his sonic with them if they were to ever get out. He put his hand on the back of the man’s head and scrubbed his fingers through the brittle hair, hoping it was encouraging. By the blood he could feel dripping over his ribs, he guessed he was right. 

With furious gestures, he tried to get the girl to grab his sonic. After several tries and the man switching nipples, she crawled towards the device and picked it up. It seemed enormous in her tiny hand. He told her to go back up against the wall out of the way, and she listened, holding it with both hands. The Doctor tried to control his breathing. He didn’t know any other way to communicate with her, but he so didn’t want to. One breath, two—nope. One, two. The Doctor pointed to her, dropped his hand to the man’s waist line, and slid it under his shirt. He pressed his hand flat against the man’s skin and ran it up his back. The man growled and ground himself into the Doctor’s soft body. He moved his mouth from a bloody nipple to the clean side of the Doctor’s neck, lips smearing red over the cream of the Doctor’s skin. 

The Doctor shuddered and yanked his hand out. He opened his eyes and saw the girl still staring at him, her eyes now wide. Swallowing was difficult with the man on his throat. He tried breathing through his nose to keep his breath slower. Once again, he pointed to the sonic, then the girl, and slid his hand under the man’s shirt.

A third finger forced its way into him, and he clenched his jaw to muffle the yell. 

“Okay,” the Doctor gasped, pulling his hand free and holding the man’s shoulders, “Okay, please, just—do you have anything… slippery?”

The fingers disappeared, and for a minute hope trickled through him. The index fingers of both hands pushed in down to the knuckles. Stretched out as he was, the friction still burned. The fingers worked in deeper and spread, pulling him apart. The Doctor grunted and then screamed. His opening ripped, and more fingers joined. 

“Blood,” grunted the man, smirking against the Doctor’s ear, “That’s slippery, right?”

He stepped back and opened his pants, dropping them. The Doctor sagged against the wall, gritting his teeth against the pain radiating through him. The man stepped aside and kicked his pants away. Alarm shot through the Doctor. He looked up, but his sonic was nowhere to be seen, her arms wrapped around her chest, knees pulled up and pressed against her. A breath shuddered out of him in relief, but it was short lived. 

His bicep was grabbed, and the man turned him around, crushing him face first into the wall. The Doctor grunted as air fled his lungs. His body went limp for less than a second as his head collided with the stone, but he caught himself. The man kicked his ankles apart, cracking one, and hooked his finger in the Doctor’s entrance, yanking and pulling at him. With a moan of pain and a hiss, the remnants of a dismantled scream, the Doctor pressed his palms and forehead against the stone. He knew what was coming, knew what to expect, but he had never felt so panicked. It was barely containable. In truth, he might have been able to fight his way out and back to the ship, but she would be hurt in the process, or killed, or worse than both of those options, so he had to take it. He had to not pull away or cringe or ask him to stop, just allow it. Pain was fine; he’d get over it, but this was new.

He felt the man’s body press up against him, teeth and nails in the backs of his shoulders. The hands moved down his sides, caressing them gently until they felt the bone outline of hips. They reached further until the tips of fingers pressed into the soft flesh of the Doctor’s length. It was stroked carefully at first and then more roughly. Behind the pain, the Doctor could feel the hot erection rutting against the space between his legs. The man moaned and groaned into the back of the Doctor’s neck.

“So soft, so delicate,” the man mumbled, “Gorgeous. Taste so good. Feel me? Feel it?”

The Doctor screwed his face up in disgust but said nothing. A rock of the man’s hips went out too far; his dick vanished for a brief second, and then the Doctor’s world exploded in pain. It burned and seared, sharp shocks from raw rips and tears. He felt like he was being skinned in the most delicate of places. The man embedded his dick as far in him as possible, grip on the Doctor’s hips forcing him back. The man moaned with pleasure, nuzzling his lover’s hair. It was only then in the silence, the Doctor realized he had screamed.

“So perfectly smooth… inside…. I’m inside you. Feel it?”

When the Doctor said nothing, just clammed himself up, the man withdrew to the tip and slammed into him, forcing out shriek. 

“Feel it?”

“Yes!” the Doctor yelled, tears falling from one eye, “Yes, yes.”

A throaty chuckle answered him. The man pulled out and pushed back in, then again and again. The Doctor bit his lip until it bled, trying to suppress his cries. It was a  
satisfaction he wouldn’t give. He wouldn’t act like he enjoyed it, and he wouldn’t let the man know how much he was hurting. Occasionally the head would hit that tiny part of the organ high in him, and a burst of pleasure would rush through him to be crushed in seconds. The object forcing its way through his body felt far larger than he knew it actually was. It was ripping him apart. Blood trickled down his thighs, more with every thrust. By thirty minutes, the Doctor floated in a haze of physical torment.

~

“You be good,” said the man, crouched down by the little girl.

He reached out and patted her head, his fingers coated in dry red and pink.

“Don’t touch her.”

The man looked over at the crumpled, naked heap that was the Doctor and smiled. He stood and paced over, lowered himself down a knee, and extended his hand. 

He brushed away the moisture trailed on the Doctor’s face, and said with a grin, “You tighten up for me, and I’ll be back…. You’re so soft….”

The man stood and casually walked away, buttoning his pants and making sure to close and lock up the cell. As the clang of the bars faded and the footsteps died, the Doctor breathed so harshly it sounded like a sob. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice higher than usual, pushing himself onto his back without moving his legs the tiniest bit, “Okay.”

A tear broke away and fell down over his ear. He violently scrubbed it away. Running was not an option. Sitting wasn’t even an option. He needed to heal if they were going anywhere. As careful as he could he heaved himself on to his elbows and hissed at the pain in his lower abdomen. His intention had been to speak to the child, but he caught sight of himself, and words died on his lips.

If he were human, his right nipple would probably not heal properly. The buds were surrounded by pock marks that oozed drops. His skin was indeed pale but perhaps never as pale as it was streaked and printed with blood, dark and dry now. Bruises littered his hips and legs, and between his thighs was more red, but this wasn’t smeared or spattered. It had dripped and leaked from his body. 

He sucked in a breath and fell back to the floor, covering his face. Suddenly breathing hurt and then wasn’t possible. No, no, no. No more. It had to stop. Tears ran and a squeak escaped him as he tried force his chest to expand. 

The child, the little girl who was sitting, watching. She had seen it all. He gulped down a breath, and his chest unfroze. Several ragged breaths later, he wiped his face again and turned his head, eyes in search of her.

Curled up, she was closer than he would have liked, pressed against the wall. Her eyes were huge and fixed on him like lamps. He didn’t attempt to sit up again. Instead, he did his best to hold his hand out to her from the horizontal position lying on the floor. 

“Please come here,” he said, his voice hoarse, “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

She blinked but didn’t seem to need too much persuasion. Carefully he watched her rise, one arm held tightly across her chest, the other using the wall to help her stand. She placed one small, bare foot after another and made her way to him. He patted the floor with his other hand, wanting her between him and the wall and not the first thing accessible to anyone who entered the cell.

“Wake me up if anyone comes in,” he told her, “Here, lay on my shoulder. I have to heal, then I’ll get you safe. Sound like a plan?”

She did as he said and snuggled down in the circle of his arm, head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose as a particularly sharp pain shot through him. When he opened them, he started somewhat. An inch from his nose was the metal middle of his sonic screwdriver. He wrapped his hand around it and set the end on his face, sending a prayer of thanks to whoever or whatever might have been listening. 

He held his hand back out to her and said, “You keep this hidden for me, okay? There isn’t anywhere in here for me to hide it. Can you do that?”

She didn’t answer but took it and pushed it back up under her pitiful excuse for clothes. 

“I’ll get you somewhere safe…. I’ll find you a home.”

Still mumbling to her, he allowed himself to be taken blissfully into unconsciousness.

~

At first he was sure his aching body had been the culprit in waking him up. Lower in his abdomen was a throb that he appreciated noticing wasn’t as sharp as it had been. Something cold trickled over his side, and he scrubbed the residue of an intense sleep out of his eyes. He blinked to make sure it was gone and found the little girl staring down at him with wide eyes. Awkwardly lifting his head to look over his chest, a rag was in her hand. She was attempting to wipe away dried blood. Beside him was a pale of apparently cold water.

“Here,” he said hoarsely, pulling the cloth from her fingers, “You don’t need to do that. I can get it…. Where did you get this stuff?”

She just gazed at him.

“You were supposed to wake me up if anyone came in…. What is your name?”

As he scraped the rag over his skin far rougher than she had been doing, he hoped to get her to talk. It would hopefully distract them both from this unpleasantness, but again, he got no reply.

“I bet you have a really pretty name,” he said, gritting his teeth as he cleaned his more damaged nipple.

“Is there a name you would like me to call you, any name you want,” he added, dipping the rag in the water and moving it between his legs. 

He hissed out the sting, but he when moved his leg aside to reach better, the stabbing momentarily froze him as he tried not to groan or yell. Focusing more on what he was doing, he did not speak to her. Some of the crust dried to the upper part of his thigh was being stubborn, and he was failing to convince himself that it was blood. It took a lot longer than it should have to clean himself, including scraping off the side of his neck and collar bone from that nasty bite. When it was done, he was thoroughly exhausted again. He dropped the rag in the bucket and gestured for the girl to lie on his shoulder again.

“If you won’t give me a name, I’ll pick one for you until you decide to tell me…. I’m going to call you Susan. Is that okay…? You can talk to me. I won’t hurt you.”

Susan watched him as his words became more jumbled and his eyes closed once more.

~

This time he knew for sure what had woken him—the slamming on the metal door as it slid open. The Doctor pushed Susan up out his arm and frantically told her to go sit in the corner and close her eyes. She didn’t stand but shuffled away, frightened stare on the man who entered the cell. A second man closed the door and locked it behind him. The Doctor forced himself to sit, though most of his weight went to the hand that braced him lopsidedly on the floor. The man came over and knelt. He squinted at the bite marks and then yanked the Doctor’s hand out from under him and pushed him flat. Shoving the bucket out of the way, pink and brown water sloshing out onto the floor, the man’s knee pressed the Doctor’s thigh wide into the floor and reached over to the other leg, unfolding it. The Doctor’s face flushed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest as he realized he was being inspected. The man’s fingers spread his crack and poked at him. 

“Huh,” he said, “You healed fast.”

The man didn’t require a response. He climbed over the Doctor, wedging himself between the Time Lord’s legs. The Doctor took a shuddering breath, held himself tighter, and tilted his head back on the stone far enough to see the wall by the top of his head. The man pried the Doctor’s arms apart and pinned them to the stone as he leaned in to lick the side of the Doctor’s neck, from collar to ear, like a dog lapping at water. 

“What are you supposed to call me?” the man asked.

It took the Doctor a couple seconds to pull his mind back to coherency. He had asked but wasn’t given an answer. 

“I think we’ll go with Rory. You find him loving and kind. Yes, Rory.”

The Doctor gulped and said hoarsely, “Rory.”

“Louder.”

“Rory.”

“Good…. Having you on the floor is so much easier,” the man said, and licked up the Doctor’s sternum, “I’m going to hurt you now, so good, and you will call by my name. Understand?”

“I can take you to places where sex is a public affair, where you can do whatever you want—“

The man’s cock forced its way into the Doctor’s raw body, tearing open wounds and ripping flesh that could not withstand another onslaught. The Doctor screamed, his fingers digging into the man’s biceps, unconsciously trying to leverage himself away. 

Buried in him, the man leaned down and slurped at the Doctor’s ear, saying, “What’s my name?” 

The Doctor groaned out the name through a clenched jaw, and the man withdrew only to slam into him again.

“Say it better this time.”

“Rory.”

He thrust again.

“Say my name.”

“Rory.”

“Again.”

“Rory.”

“Again.”

“Rory.”

Over and over. The violence of the man began to spatter dark droplets on both their thighs. Teeth marks littered the Doctor’s chest and shoulders and now face, all running blood. Every thrust, every time something particularly painful happened, the man would say, “Again.” The Doctor would say, “Rory,” until it became so frequent for so long, the Doctor did it without prompting. 

The man sheathed himself with the Doctor’s body and was drawn down to a pale, unmarked spot high on the Doctor’s shoulder. He sunk his teeth in like fifty times before, but this time he didn’t stop. Flesh popped in his mouth and fluid sprang forward. It was so satisfying to not stop. The Doctor screamed, higher and loud than he knew was physically possible, this time doing his very best to push the man away but not succeeding. He didn’t notice the moisture leaving his eyes in rivulets. The last of the tendrils of muscle snapped, and Rory pulled back. Through the haze of pain, the Doctor gagged. Between Rory’s teeth and lips was a hunk of the Doctor’s shoulder. Blood gushed over his bottom lip and dribbled down his chin to drop on the Doctor’s chest, looking every bit a messy vampire. The Time Lord could see as Rory moved the meat in his mouth, a smeared flat layer of skin. Rory smoothed his tongue over it and began to chew.

The Doctor gagged again and tried to twist away. He heard the gulp as Rory swallowed his flesh down and felt hands come up to his face. They held him roughly, keeping his face straight, and Rory leaned down to his lips. Terror and panic laced through the Doctor like never in all his years. He thrashed and shoved but weakened as he was and large as the man was, he did not get far. Rory pressed his mouth against the Doctor’s. A trickle of blood ran across the Doctor’s jaw like a tear. Though it seemed like the man intended no more than a rough kiss, the hot liquid leaking into his mouth did nothing to quell the erratic emotions coursing through him. He tried to seal up his mouth to keep the blood and saliva out, but when he pressed his tongue flat on his pallet, he found soft chunks and more in the crevices of his teeth. 

His body convulsed violently, and Rory let go just in time to allow the Doctor to twist his top half as best he could with the other man’s weight on him and retch so hard his forehead smacked on the stone floor. He vomited again and again until his throat swelled and tears and snot streamed from him. Every breath he got the chance to take was a gasp, and every lungful of air made him feel something else weighted on his tongue or wedged in his teeth, and he’d retch again.

It wasn’t until dizziness overtook him that he rolled back like a limp doll, vomit now joining the blood, tears, and mucus that caked his face. It wasn’t until then that he noticed the rhythmic jerking of his body. Rory was still fucking him, but all the pain was constant now, all consuming, and the Doctor did nothing but lie there.


	7. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very dark, very angsty

The Doctor’s eyes wouldn’t open. They seemed to be glued shut. He tried to lift his hands to his face, pain in his right shoulder sliced through him, and it was all he could do to not cry out. Instead, he let that arm go limp rubbed open his eyes with his left hand. His face felt puffy, and his throat was as if a softball had been shoved down it. He tried to gather his thoughts, tried to think but nothing came. Inches from his head was the bucket. With great effort, he slid his injured arm into his lap and did his best to push himself up. He couldn’t help the grunt and groan that left him as he tried to maneuver his way to stability. 

The bucket seemed to be refreshed. There was no tinge of color or crust, and the cloth didn’t look like it had anything it. Reaching in, he curled his fingers around it in the cold water, squeezed and shook it, and pull it up to his mouth where he sucked up as much of the water as he was able. God, he was thirsty. He had no idea how long he’d been there, but it didn’t matter. His body needed water to heal him, to keep him functioning through the blood loss. He dripped the rag again and again, drinking in the cold water that felt amazing on his throat and in his stomach. 

When he’d had enough, he went to drop the rag in the water again but decided last minute not to leave it. It was still in his hand as he groaned loudly, lying back on the stone, which was so fouled his body was outlined in it with body fluids and vomit. He twisted the rag in his hand and without consciously deciding to, brought it up and pressed it over one eyelid.

His breath caught with a genuine sob.

Jack. 

He needed Jack, so desperately it hurt. How was this so different? Jack had bit him. Jack had fucked him and made him bleed. Could it be that only a week or so ago he had enjoyed such treatment, craved it? Even intentionally hurting him, Jack couldn’t hurt him. Jack who was safe and warm and perhaps constantly a tiny bit high. The Doctor smiled through another sob. This cloth was heaven. The cold felt so good on his face, anything else he felt didn’t matter. 

The Doctor folded the cloth and gently rubbed it over his other eye. This asteroid was silent. He missed the comforting hum of the TARDIS’ engines, and even Torchwood had subtle vibration in the air from all the computers, but this place—it was dead. He rolled onto his side the best he could, facing the bars. He tucked his injured arm against his chest and breathed through the throbbing of his body. He’d clean himself after Susan awoke and drank. It was a perfectly fine and rational excuse to not move, even to scrub away Rory’s filth.

No. Rory was sweet. Rory had a heart bigger than anyone’s. He loved and cared. He was the amazing man who waited 2000 years to keep Amy safe. He was the amazing father and husband who crossed the universe with a vengeance, looking for his family. Rory who could always be counted on for kind words and a smile. That was Rory.

The Doctor tucked the cloth under the side of his face and closed his eyes.

~

Susan woke him again, this time by poking his chin repeatedly. Vaguely his sleep-stuck brain, he made the tiniest motion to swat away whatever was one him, but as soon as he tensed his arm, pain radiated form his shoulder out over his collar bone and into his neck. He grunted and stilled himself in hopes it would fade. Gradually in lessened but certainly didn’t leave. The Doctor opened his eyes to see her sitting in front of him, sonic in hand.

“The bucket,” said the Doctor, “It’s clean water. Go drink.”

Setting down the sonic, she needed no further telling. Cupping her hand and dipping it in, she pulled it up and gulped down the water. After a few more, she sat back.

“No, have more.”

She listened. When he was satisfied, he pushed himself up, dragging the rag with him. 

“Okay,” he told her, “We don’t have time for me to heal. Should have left before. If…” he swallowed, already breathing heavy with the effort, “If I say run, you need to run. If I tell you to hide, you need to do it, and always stay close to me. I won’t be able to hold your hand. I’ll have to have my sonic. Susan, do you understand?”

She didn’t respond, just watched him.

He closed his eyes in frustration, “Please, Susan, we’ve done this kind of thing so many times before. Just tell me you understand.”

Slowly she nodded.

“Okay, thank you. Thank you.”

Calling it a great effort for him to stand was an enormous understatement. He grunted and moaned but tried to keep himself quiet. Quiet was difficult though. Pressure built in his chest and head, and he could feel his face reddening. On his hands and knees now, he couldn’t decide what would be less painful: putting one leg forward and standing as if on a step or crouching back on his heels and rising from both feet. Remembering the steps in Torchwood made him sore even from Jack, he gathered his feet under himself. With a searing burn, he sat back on his ankles, rocked forward, and pushed himself up. Balance was something else entirely. He stumbled sideways, one foot over the next, managing to stay vertical until his good shoulder slammed into the wall of the cell. Grunting and biting his lip, he stood still and pressed his forehead into the wall, putting dents in his already scraped skin, riding out the pain and dizziness. Warmth trickled down the inside of his legs, one thick drop that ran nearly to his knee, then another and another. The damage was just beginning.

“Hey,” he said to Susan in what he hoped was a light voice. 

His body shook violently.

“H—Hey, can I have that now?”

She glanced at where his finger pointed and picked it up. Her tiny fingers barely closed around its middle. Her dirty bare feet took one hesitant step to him and then another, it held out before her like a scepter. He leaned against the wall, the back of his shoulder blades appreciating the cold. Reaching out with his good hand, he grasped the sonic. It felt good; it felt right in his fingers. 

“Right, okay. Remember everything I told you? Nod, Susan, good. Okay.”

The Doctor pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled through steps that took him only inches. Not thinking about how long it took him to get to the bars of the cell, he lifted the sonic, leveled it with the lock of the door, and a high pitched sound resonated throughout the tiny room. Relief flooded him, not because the door clicked open easily as the green light shadowed it but because it was such a familiar noise, one that he relied on, had gotten him out of so much trouble. The wheezing of the TARDIS made people run to him; it gave them hope, he'd been told, but the ringing pulse of the sonic--his sonic screwdriver--that was his hope.

He curled his fingers around one of the bars and carefully pulled the door back. It clicked and echoed far more than he would have liked. When the gap was large enough for him to work his way through, he stopped and slid out. His bare feet touched the floor outside his cell, and a thrill shot through him. 

"C'mon," he whispered down at Susan.

She noiselessly followed. As quickly as the pain between his legs would allow, they scuttled down the hall. It would have helped if he knew at all where he was going, and she had been on the surface, so Susan didn't know either. As far as plans went, he was simply going to continue until he heard the sound of water in pipes or some sort of vibration of machinery. From there he could get them out. Climbing the ladder back up was a thought that made him cringe.

Footsteps were easy to hear as they approached, but all the halls were simply carved tunnels with no nooks to hide in. They quickened their pace. On the left came a door. The Doctor risked the noise of the sonic, opened it, and threw himself inside, yanking Susan with so hard her feet came off the ground. 

He whispered with a finger to his lips so softly his breath was louder than his words, “Shhhh, no noise.”

The footsteps passed them without incident. He let out a shuddered breath and looked around them but could see nothing in the pitch dark. He held out his sonic again and pushed the button. He gasped, nearly lost his grip on it, and let go half a second later.

The image of the man chewing the chunk of shoulder played in his mind’s eye, slowly, with painful detail. The Doctor’s breath was ragged. He started to stumble but nearly fell into Susan. Her presence, her need for him to save her stabilized him. He closed his eyes.

Think, he told himself, think! 

Perhaps there was another door somewhere in this… butchery that would allow them a quicker escape. 

“Susan,” he said, resting his hand on the back of her head, “Susan, I need you to close your eyes. Do that for me? Close your eyes and do not open them, no matter what. Just keep your hand on my leg, like this, right here and stay close. Can you do all of that?”

He felt her nod.

Swallowing down nausea, he tried to breathe even. Holding his hand out again, he pressed the button on the sonic and slowly moved forward between the tables. Luckily the dark stain on the floor was dried, so while he felt it below his feet, it did not squeeze up between his toes. The tables around were metal, tinged green with his shaking light as he walked by, crusted and smeared. So consumed by the knives and tongs on them, he nearly hobbled his way into a see-through plastic bag hanging from the ceiling. At first he thought it was a bag of blood, then he realized the blood was draining from the arm inside. No hand or fingers or shoulder, just the arm. He turned his head and closed his eyes.

A group of men, no idea how many, living on an asteroid with only lured ships to live off of, how else would they survive if they didn’t eat their dead, eat the passengers from the ships. The Doctor swallowed as he thought, eat them after they had sexually used them to death. Or during.

He pushed forward, now waving his sonic up and down to make sure he didn’t run into anything. The room was longer than he thought it would be, but when he approached the other end, avoiding a few more bags, he saw what he had hoped to see—a door. Eyes fixed on it, he wasn’t paying enough attention. He stepped on something tough and compressionable. In an attempt to get off, he stepped too quickly, lost his balance, and rammed his shoulder into the wall beside the door.

“Susan--!” he started in alarm as her hand lost contact with his leg, but his words were cut off as a gag threatened to overtake him.

No, no, no, no, he couldn’t puke here. It would just prove that they had gone this way, but despite trying to calm himself and scraping his foot repeatedly on the floor to banish the echoing feeling of whatever he had stepped on, he couldn’t quite manage it entirely, so he swallowed and swallowed until it was gone. A light pressure touched his side. Setting his sonic in his near worthless arm, he dropped his good one and felt a small hand flattened beside his belly button. She was reaching all the way up on her toes. He squeezed her hand and set it back on his leg. He limped over to the crack in the door and listened but heard nothing. He kept listening, just to be sure, and used the sonic to open it. 

It was another dark hallway, but this time he heard something machine based down the right end. He ran the backs of his fingers over Susan’s hand and started forward. Ten feet, maybe fifteen, and they came not to a door but an arch way, and this room had dim lighting. He walked cautiously in, toting Susan, listen for any sign of anyone, but nothing reached his ears except the hum of large white bins on the edges of the room. He stepped to the side a few times and reached one. Bracing himself, he dug his fingers into the lid and pried it up.

Freezers, that’s what they were. Frozen in plastic bags were strips of muscle, some wrenchingly small, and at least one fully intact limb. He stared. Closed it. Count, he told himself, count in Gallifreyan. He got to seven when a thought hit him. Freezers, lights—power. He leaned around the freezer and saw the thick black cord. His breath hitched in hope as he followed the cords down to a hole in the wall beside a door. He opened it in a green flash and pushed through, going around the door, and looked at the cords behind it. This room was nearly black again, except just inside the doorway. The Doctor put his sonic towards the ground and followed the cords. He swung it up and back down and up, trying to see where it led. There, wooden planks nailed to the wall disappearing up into the dark. His hearts skipped, and he moved forward.

A hand reached up from behind him and yanked the sonic from his grip.

“This is an impressive device.”

The Doctor stumbled back, shoving Susan behind him. His brain jammed, chest froze, mouth noiselessly moving. The man pushed the button on the sonic, and green lit up his face from bellow.

The man smiled, and said with clear joy, “You left a trail of blood, not much but enough. One smeared drop here and there. The idiots lost your trail when you entered the slaughterhouse. They failed to notice the color difference between fresh blood and dried. I figured you’d go for the nearest hatch.” He stepped closer, and the Doctor stepped back. “Your ship is proving difficult to gain entry to, though it doesn’t look like much. You did say it was much bigger than it seemed, so I haven’t given up entirely…. Do you know what’s funny?”

The man’s voice took a dark turn. His eyes moved up from the sonic to look at him.

“I was just thinking as much fun as you are, a little girl really sounded good right now.”

Clenching his hand around Susan’s shoulder, the Doctor pulled her back. 

“What’s my name?”

The Doctor said nothing. There was no way he could get up the hatch in time. A fight was the only thing he could think of. The man smirked and drew a gun from the back of his pants. 

“I’ve seen enough people fight for their lives to not underestimate them…. After you.”

The man stepped aside and gestured for the Doctor to walk. Thinking he had until the other end of the slaughterhouse to come up with something, he pulled Susan beside him, keeping his body between them. Three hobbled steps later, the man moved suddenly, and a blow landed on the back of the Doctor’s head, taking him face first to the floor. He felt as if he were floating, drifting and disconnecting. 

“What’s my name?”

~

The Doctor gasped, fighting his drowning instinct as water poured into his mouth. He choked and turned his head, coughing up water from his lungs. Susan was much better at waking him up. He looked around himself, trying to get his bearings. He had been tossed into the corner contorted and hunched. Susan was curled up in her own corner, and the man stood before him. The Doctor opened his mouth. Even with the water bath, his mouth felt gummy and tasted familiar.

It was a flavor he only associated with Jack. That would explain the ache in his jaw. 

He shuddered but was thankful he hadn’t been awake for it. 

The man grabbed his swollen ankle and drug him away from the wall into the middle of the cell and flipped him over. The Doctor didn’t know what to do, if he should fight or take it again, but the man’s chest pressed against back and pinned him down. An arm reached over the Doctor’s shoulder and encircled his neck, using him as leverage to pull himself forward over the Doctor’s body and yet again bury his cock in him. A hand scrubbed through his hair and gripped it, pulling his head back as far it would go. That and the arm around his neck restricted his breathing and vocal noises, but if anything it hurt more than ever. The man grunted with every thrust, and the Doctor simply waited for it to be over.

~

“What’s my name?”

It was a question that repeated in sleep. In his mind, he never got a chance to answer, but tried. He screamed it. 

“Rory.”

This had to end. It did. Everything ends. No more hunger or cold or stone. No more waking to taste in his mouth or stickiness on his chest. No more pain and being used for pleasure or food. Everything ended.

He had a bite missing now from the inside of each thigh. No matter how hard he screamed or thrashed or behaved during violation, it seemed to be Rory’s favorite part. The bites had come one right after another, and the blood loss had been spectacular. 

“I need you, little rag,” Rory had whispered in his ear, “Food is rationed, and I’m so hungry.”

Pleadings had tumbled form the Doctor’s mouth faster than he could make sense of them himself, but it didn’t matter. Fighting was futile, and with every passing minute he was weaker. 

Rory pulled out of him, and the Doctor’s haze of incomprehensible thoughts was scattered. He felt himself rolled over onto his back. Rory walked on his knees around the Doctor to the top of his head and knelt on his forearms with more weight than necessary. The Doctor half opened his mouth in expectation. Rory flattened his hands on the Doctor’s chest and smoothed them down to his hips. Susan had cleaned him well this time. There was almost no crusted blood.

“When you got here,” Rory growled low in his throat, running his hands over the skin again, “You had stomach muscles that made my mouth water. You’re atrophying now, and I see that I should had done this right away. You’re a lot less valuable without so much meat on you.”

Rory opened his mouth and leaned down.

The Doctor shrieked and screamed.

“Nonono don’t, please! Please don’t! I’ll do anything, no, no, no, NO!”

He thrashed and twisted, but Rory held his hips down. Teeth touched his skin halfway between his belly button and ribcage, and dug in. The Doctor screamed harder as the bite popped and frayed under pressure and ripped the rest of the way out of him with a small shake of Rory’s head. Gasping, the Doctor trembled head to foot and curled up as best he could.

“No, no, no,” he sobbed quietly, pressing his face, eyes closed, into his uninjured upper arm, “No, no.”

He cried and held himself as tight as he could, not even caring when Rory resumed fucking him.

~

“Doctor, oh, Doctor.”

He opened his eyes. Briefly he registered that he had slept longer than usual and was thankful for it. He did, even by a small margin, feel better for it, but in truth he knew that just meant he’d fight harder and things would hurt more. He’d feel it all more. For the first time, heavy manacles held his arms together, but they didn’t anchor him to anything. Rory stood in front of him, the cell door closed of course, hands behind him, and the beginnings of a smile on his face. He started to pace form left to right before his prisoner, something glinting from his clasped hands. The Doctor pushed himself as upright as he could and rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. He waited as Rory continued to pace.

Finally, the man stopped, and said, “Oh, Doctor, my little rag, we had a deal, remember? Your cooperation for her safety.”

Rory paused and gestured to the little girl in the corner behind him. The Doctor stiffened.

“I know, I’m sorry,” the Doctor spoke quickly, holding his hands out as best he could, “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t her fault. Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it. Anything.”

“That’s not the point,” Rory continued, shaking his head with a smile as though teaching a child a lesson, “We had a deal. And you went back on it.”

“Please—“

“I’ve been enjoying you so very much, but I think it’s time we got to the punishment.”

He turned and started towards her. 

“Don’t! She’s innocent! She doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Rory reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her to her feet.

“You have me! She can’t do anything for you. I can! Susan!”

The Doctor did his best to struggle to his feet as the man dragged her forward. 

“Please don’t hurt her.”

Rory stopped short and held her up again the wall perpendicular to the Doctor. In his other hand was a knife. He pushed a button on it, and a long, thin silver blade snapped out. Rory set the tip to her forehead and lightly drug it down her nose. Her eyes ignored it, intent on the naked man who made her so many promises. She tried to pull away and reached out for him. The Doctor struggled towards her, twisting at the metal on his wrists. Rory slapped the top of her hand with the flat of the blade hard enough to leave a dripping red line. She snatched it back and held it to her chest. Rory pulled her hair, scraping the top of her head on the wall. The torture, the scarring, the disfigurement the Doctor pictured as he begged would kill him. Every time he looked at her, guilt would consume him. She’d suffer the rest of her life because of his poor judgement. 

“No, no, no,” said the Doctor, feeling every bit as desperate as ever, still attempting to stand, tears smearing the blood on his face, “No, please, she was always such a good girl. Please, it was my fault, my fault! She just wanted to be free, to learn, so I took her. Please…. Susan….”

Rory gave him a disgusted frown, and said, “Then consider this even more your fault.”

Rory’s knife hand moved towards her face again. The muscles in his arm tensed, and he pushed the long blade into her eye. And through it. And further until the tip clinked on the stone behind her. Her arms dropped and her face fell, one line of blood running down her cheek.

The Doctor didn’t scream, didn’t fight. He slumped against his wall and stared, lips parted. He just stared. No sound got to him, no movement registered, not even pain touched him. All he knew was the single still image of Susan, his Susan, limp with a knife in her brain. At some point he was probably beaten or it might have been that he was given water. Maybe he was cleaned. He didn’t see when Rory picked her up off the ground, didn’t hear when a comment was made about a man who liked them cold, before Rory took her away, but there was one thing he always heard, one thing he always said.

“What’s my name?”

“Rory.”


	8. Pieces

When he had moved to the front of the cells, practically pushed up against its bars, he couldn’t remember. A stench he had grown accustomed to being in the air was overpowering. In small movements, he adjusted his arms. All four of the missing chunks were stinging. It didn’t really bother him; it was a good pain, but some small part of his mind was curious. He was wet and sticky at the same time, halfway to drying, his entire body covered in piss, far too much of it to have been one person or even two. With that understanding came the burn of every wound, but again, it was a good pain.

~

Gasping at the cold, the Doctor stiffened and fought the onslaught of water to get up into a sitting position. The pressure from the hose was enough to make what little unmarked skin he had sting. Rory pulled up one of the Doctor’s arms by the wrist and power rinsed it and his armpit and his side, then switched and did the same with the other arm. He kicked apart the Doctor’s legs and moved over his torso and finally his face and hair. When Rory seemed satisfied and nearly an inch of water puddled on the floor, the spray ceased.

Rubbing the water out of his eyes and pushing back his sopping hair, the Doctor looked up at the man. Twelve bites were missing from the Doctor now, arms, legs, and torso, and almost all of them now had a fresh line of red streaming down over his pale skin. Before he could begin to contemplate what he was supposed to do, Rory knelt down between his legs. He locked eyes with his prisoner and for a moment seemed to simply look at him. He reached down around and gripped the Doctor under the ass cheeks and picked him up to set him in his lap.

For a moment, one brief, relieving moment, the Doctor put his arms around the man’s shoulders and rested his face in Rory’s neck. It was so warm. The Doctor thought then that he could die that second and it would be the best second since he set foot on the asteroid. Rory’s hands lightly trailed up his back and over his shoulder blades, and his top lip brushed the Doctor’s throat and collar bone. With a whimper, the Doctor pushed his hands through Rory’s brittle hair and moved himself closer. Rory’s mouth ghosted over the pulse in the Doctor’s neck. The Doctor pressed against him, willing him to bite there, just there, in that perfect spot, and no more could happen to him. One more missing bit of his body, the right bit, and all this would be erased from him. 

Rory smirked into the Doctor’s skin and whispered, “You don’t have much more I can take. I think this will be over soon.”

“Please…” the Doctor squeaked, pushing Rory’s face into him.

He shrieked as he was abruptly evicted from the lap he was on and crushed face first into the stone. Rory scraped his teeth over the Doctor’s ass and thighs, climbed over him, and roughly entered him. The Doctor’s body tensed and spasmed, but no noise escaped. The weight over him grunted with every thrust. He pulled his arms up over the back of his head as if they offered some sort of protection, and with every grunt came another tear.

~

Footsteps.

Banging.

Screaming.

He should care, but he really just couldn’t.

Footsteps again.

The cell door rolled open. The Doctor tensed expectantly. Over however long he had been there, the things that happened were very much routine, so he noticed the second the cell door didn’t close again. Not that it mattered, he couldn’t run anyway. Rory said he was almost done. He just had to wait. When a second person entered his cell, their movement made him realize his eyes were open ever so slightly. They looked like shadows, each holding something. He hoped they were knives he’d seen in the slaughterhouse. That would mean they were done with him. 

A hand touched his shoulder, and he cringed away. 

“Hey, who… who am I?”

“Rory.”

“No, Doc, open your eyes. Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

Something pulled at him, something deep and buried. He shook his head. No, it was too difficult, to much to think about. Calloused warmth carefully rubbed over his eyelids, brushing away crust and grime. It was nice to have his eyes free. He blinked. Nothing was in focus. He blinked again. Yes, there were still at least two people in the cell, though given the second and third outline each had, the Doctor wasn’t sure. He noticed then the hands on his face. They were warm too. He rubbed his face in one of the palms, gently at first and then, holding onto the wrist, almost aggressively, like an intense itch he couldn’t control. 

It was the smell, a new smell that was old, so very old and familiar. He blinked again and again and gasped in a way that sounded more like a sob. 

Jack.

~

Gwen ran down the carved out halls, gun drawn, two UNIT commandos following. All three of them had ridiculously bright lanterns on their belts to serve for light until UNIT got the tripod lights up. These rotten, bloody cannibals. Monsters, that’s what they were, nothing less. All over she heard gun shots and with each one felt a certain satisfaction that they were paying with their lives, but also a grating frustration that they weren’t paying with screams. No one on her ear piece had said a word since they all jumped down the four shafts into the asteroid and found a room of freezers filled with muscle and organs. 

“I see cells,” she yelled back to the men following her.

She picked up the pace, gun at the ready, but every cell was empty. They went down beyond what her eye could see. Some of the barred rooms had gore spattered on their walls but most were barren, until they came to one with a man.

“No,” muttered Gwen, running to the bars.

She grabbed the door with her free hand and yanked, but it barely rattled.

“Jack!” she said to her ear piece, “I’ve got him, Jack, but I can’t get to him. The bloody door won’t open. I need the key.”

Behind her, she could hear UNIT describing their location as she gazed at the man on the floor, huddled into the corner. Even from there, she could see the overlapping hand-print bruises on his thighs and arms. Deep purple ringed his neck. She crouched down, her hand curled around the metal.

“Doctor,” she said softly, “Doctor, if you can hear me, you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”

She heard the pounding of steps so urgent they could only have been Jack’s. He skidded to a halt as he came up from the other end of the black hallway. She was surprised when Jack didn’t kick anything, didn’t start screaming or swearing. For a single second he paused, looking at his friend, and nudged Gwen aside, key extended. It clanged in its lock, and when he pushed the door open, he stood there. Gwen frowned at him questioningly and forced herself past him into the cell. Her first step was squelchy. The floor was caked in waste and blood and vomit and chunks of God knows what, but she kept going. Cautiously Jack followed.

Gwen approached the Doctor and knelt beside him, trying not to touch the wall. All over she saw craters in his flesh, some so deep bone peaked through. She set her hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.

“Jack,” she said, not removing her eyes, “Jack, they’ve been eating him.”

Quietly, Jack said, “I know.”

He observed the way the Doctor sat, leaned over to one side, the dried blood on the inside of his legs, the hand prints and teeth marks not meant for eating. A coarse anger Jack had never felt before slammed into him so hard it was nauseating. He cracked teeth gritting his jaw. Heedless of the moisture on the floor, he stepped closer and got down on his knees, sitting back on his ankles. He reached out and cupped the Doctor’s chin with both hands. The Doctor wasn’t looking at him, not really. The whites of his eyes were barely visible beyond the slit of his eyelids. He didn’t seem to be taking in anything.

“Can you hear me, Doctor?” asked Jack softly.

He waited but received no reaction. 

“We came to save you,” Jack told him with an ironic smile, “Remember all those times you sent me out to the TARDIS? I set up some tech so I could monitor where she went if you took off…. I’m sorry it took so long to get here. I used the key you gave me and my vortex manipulator and the bug, and she came to me, Doc. She came and opened her doors and took me here, but I couldn’t get in…. I had to get help…. I had to. Please be okay.”

Gwen reached over and wiped away the tear on Jack’s face.

“Listen, it’ll be alright now. I’ve got you.”

Still no answer.

“Hey, who… who am I?”

“Rory.”

Jack sucked in a breath. The Doctor’s voice sounded nothing like the Doctor, but he spoke. Rory—Jack remembered the story of Rory and Amy. At least the Doctor was thinking. Jack leaned closer.

“No, Doc, open your eyes. Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

Jack did his best to gently rub circles over the Doctor’s eyelids, not knowing what else to do, but his hands shook, and he really didn’t want to hurt him. The Doctor seemed to like it though. He opened his eyes but was still clearly sightless. He nuzzled Jack’s hand and rubbed his face in further as if he were trying to push his way through it. 

Somewhere in him, it all clicked. 

He gasped out a sob, “Jack.”

“Yes,” said Jack urgently, pressing their foreheads together, “Yes, Doc, it’s me. I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

One of the Doctor’s hands threaded through Jack’s hair and gripped painfully, the other clamped around the side of Jack’s neck.

“He’ll hurt you,” croaked the Doctor, “He’ll hurt you.”

“No, he won’t. We own this place now.”

“NO!” the Doctor screamed and shoved Jack away, “He hurts!”

“Who?” asked Jack, shaking the filth off the hand he caught himself with, “Who hurt you…? What’s his name?”

“Rory.”

Jack paused again.

“Your Rory? Your friend?”

The Doctor rubbed his face in his hands in frustration. Jack stripped off his coat and, though the lower half was disgusting, he stood and hunched, draping it as best he could over the Doctor’s shoulders. It was not accepted.

“Doc, please, I’m trying to help.”

Jack tossed his coat over his shoulder and reached for the Doctor’s hands. They trembled in his and barely had the strength to hold on.

“It’s time to get you out of here.”

“No, no, no, please, not again, no, I can’t.”

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay—“

The Doctor let go and pulled away, tucking himself into his corner, shaking his head and muttering pleas under his breath. Jack lost what little self-control he had.

“You can’t leave because of Rory, is that it?”

Faintly, the Doctor muttered something about “hurts.” Jack stood and spun away, crunching his cracked teeth. 

“Martha, Ianto,” he said to his communicator, “I need a man called Rory. Find him. Bring him to the cells.”

Jack walked over to the bars and gripped them with white knuckles, his breathing ragged, angrily staring at the hall floor, waiting.

“Um, do you know,” Gwen started hesitantly, “Is there anyone in here other than these monsters? Any people like you?”

“Susan,” the Doctor said, his head wrapped in his arms.

“Who is Susan?” Gwen frowned at the silence and decided to move on, “Is there anyone other than Susan?”

“The children. Get the children…. Get Susan. Run.”

“UNIT,” Jack barked suddenly, “Have you found anyone else prisoner…? Have you found any children?”

It took a while to get a response, but then Ianto’s voice came to him over the earpiece, “None alive.”

Jack kicked the bars. Everyone jumped. For a long while no one said anything. Gwen stroked the Doctor’s hair; Jack tried in vain to even his breathing, and the UNIT soldiers stared quietly at the wall. 

“Coming to you,” said Ianto in Jack’s ear.

After a few minutes they heard rustling and struggling coming towards them. Two more UNIT soldiers held a pissed off man between them, followed by Ianto. Jack pointed into the cell, and the soldiers drug the struggling man in. Jack noted with a small amount of pride the man’s freshly swelling eye and Ianto’s freshly purpling knuckles. 

“His name is Rory?” asked Jack, following them in, doing his best not to look at his new prisoner.

“No, no one is named Rory from what I can tell, but—“ Ianto held out a green tipped screwdriver— “He had this on him.”

Jack glared at it. He snatched it out of Ianto’s hand and entered the now crowded cell. He went over to the Doctor and got down next to him.

“Here, Doc. It’s your sonic.”

The Doctor carefully parted his arms and lifted his head. At first he seemed intrigued by the familiar object but around Jack he caught sight of the man and sucked in a breath. He wrapped his arms around his chest but didn’t hide his face again.

“Take it. It’s yours,” Jack insisted.

The Doctor shook his head, eyes never leaving the man. Martha appeared at the bars, out of breath and panicked. She cried out as her eyes landed on her friend, but two UNIT soldiers grabbed her upper arms and held her back. UNIT came because Torchwood wasn’t enough to take the compound, but they came with the understanding that Torchwood gave the orders. Jack was in charge, and he doubted Martha would stay objective. He had already given UNIT their orders to keep her back. By the screaming she was doing, he had been right. One of the soldiers said something very firmly to her and she quieted.

Jack pointed behind him, “Is this Rory? Is this the man who hurt you?”

No answer.

“What’s his name?”

“Rory.”

Jack looked sideways at the man, his own eyes darker than he knew himself capable of and motioned for UNIT to bring him closer. With another instructional movement, they pushed the man down to his knees.

Jack asked the Doctor, “You won’t take the sonic because he hurt you for having it?”

The Doctor lifted his gaze to Jack, shrinking back from his sonic, and said, “Tried to get away.”

Without looking behind him, Jack’s elbow shot out and collided with Rory’s nose. Blood streamed down over his mouth, purple and blue immediately blooming over his face. Jack wanted so badly to turn round and pound him until there was nothing but mush in place of his head, but he held himself in check.

Holding the sonic an inch from the Doctor’s hand, he said, “I think you can have it back now.”

The Doctor didn’t take it. Jack touched it to his palm, and the Doctor’s fingers carefully curled, but he held it like it might burn him any second. 

Jack stood and asked, “Why don’t you turn it on?”

The Doctor looked at him with wide eyes. 

“It’s okay to do that. Do you know why? Because I’m in charge now.”

Lashing back again, Jack’s elbow hit Rory’s cheek bone this time, and it cracked. Rory shrieked and covered his face, having troubles spitting out the blood. Jack composed himself and gestured towards the screwdriver. To his surprise and relief, a sonic resonance filled the air, but he was nowhere near as surprised as the Doctor, who seemed like he didn’t quite know how that had happened. For a few minutes Jack watched him run his fingers over the cool metal and push different settings, every one making him glance up at Rory on his knees with a busted face, until finally the Doctor put both his hands around the rod and held it close to his chest. 

“Leave,” Jack told the UNIT soldiers.

They left at once, Rory falling forward. Jack pointed and after a tense second, Gwen rose and stood by the cell door.

“This man isn’t going to hurt you anymore, no matter what you do,” said Jack calmly, “He hit you?”

The Doctor nodded. That was an easy question. Jack stood and kneed Rory in the face. The man fell groaning and yelling. A stomp on his ribs made hands move from face to chest, and Jack shoved his boot into Rory’s throat, pinning him. Jack’s foot and ankle and leg were clawed and punched, but the rage that burned through him numbed it. He pulled his pistol from his belt and carelessly lined up a shot to the ankle. As the gun went off, the noise was startlingly loud, echoing off the stone. Another shot came, a second bullet blowing into Rory’s shin. Jack sank bullet after bullet up the man’s leg, blood bursting into the air with each shot, until the barrel was empty. Without pause, Jack dug in his pocket and refilled his pistol. Rory withered on the floor, his pants’ leg soaking and dripping.

Jack stepped away and approached the Doctor, kneeling again. He held his hand out.

“Remember me? I’m Jack. I’m the one who protects the Doctor.” He went back to Rory, and from there asked, “Did he force you?”

The Doctor hadn’t understood the question.

“Did he rape you?”

He looked down at the sonic in his hands, eyes averted.

“I know he did; I just need you to tell me. Say it out loud, and then I’ll fix it.”

Jack waited patiently. Words nearly left the Doctor’s lips several times but were stunted last second. 

Finally, he whispered, “He said it would keep Susan safe if I let him… let him do whatever he wanted…. It hurt….”

“Hey, it will never happen again. Do you believe me?” 

The Doctor held his gaze and then nodded, though he wasn’t sure it was the truth. 

Lazily, Jack cocked his pistol again and fired. Blood erupted from Rory’s crotch. The man screamed this time, a proper scream. Jack fired in succession until the barrel was empty. The space between Rory’s legs no longer held shape. It was flat and deflated, nothing more than dripping gore, bits and pieces scattered in a growing pile of blood and clinging to the torn holes on his pants. Rory kept screaming, his back arching, trying to wriggle free. 

“Oh, shut up!” yelled Jack, stomping on the man’s chest. 

He whimpered like a wounded dog, but the screaming ceased. Stepping back, Jack sheathed his pistol and pulled the long military coat from his shoulder. 

“Doctor,” he said softly, sitting one more time, his legs sliding through the sludge on the floor, “Doc, please help me know what to do.”

His friend looked at him with big brown eyes; one of them so bloodshot almost no white was visible. Brown, floppy, crusty hair plastered flat against the Doctor’s forehead. Jack remembered this body before him as beautiful and smooth and lithe and so strong. Now here he was battered and beaten, trembling, violated, used, and eaten. The despair in Jack threatened to crush the breath out of him. It was combated only by the black rage that laced his veins. He reached one hand out slowly so as not to startle the Time Lord. The tips of his fingers touched the Doctor’s face. The Doctor flinched but didn’t pull away. Jack’s fingers slid over his cheek and into the grimy hair. He felt the Doctor lean into him, nuzzle his hand again, eyes closed.

Anything, that’s what Jack would do, anything. Vengeance was justified. The storm in him demanded it, but it calmed, ruefully shrinking to an echo. No, he wasn’t needed right now to inflict pain or terror or make people sorry. He was needed to push the pain away, to be the warm body the Doctor knew would always be safe. Whatever it took, anything.

“Here,” he whispered, opening his coat and shaking it around the Doctor’s shoulders.

He had imagined seeing all three regenerations in his coat, but this was not what he wanted. It dwarfed the man. Jack tucked him into it, pulling the shoulders closed over the Doctor’s arms still clutched on his sonic. The Doctor watched hesitantly as Jack’s hands worked but did his best to not interfere, no matter how much his instincts were screaming at him. This was Jack after all. 

The calm that washed over Jack was not matched by his friends.

Gwen took two quick steps to the man on the floor and stood over him. She knocked a bullet into the chamber of her gun with a satisfying metallic snick. 

“The bodies,” came Ianto’s voice, booming over them as he entered the cell, yanking back the top of his gun, “The children in the freezers, pieces of them. Was that on your orders? Did you decide to kill them?”

Consumed by pain, Rory didn’t even hear him, just rolled and rythed on the floor.

Ianto squeezed out three shots into Rory’s uninjured leg. Gwen stepped over the man on the floor towards Jack.

“Doctor,” she barked a lot harsher than she meant to, making the cowering man jump, “Is he the one who took bites out of you? Was he the only one?”

The Doctor turned his head towards Jack and leaned so that his face was partially hidden behind him. Jack’s arms came up as if to hold him, but they hovered unsure if he was allowed to touch. 

The Doctor nodded, but then added quietly, repeating Rory's words, “My face will be the sweetest.”

Jack did embrace him them, crushing him with more force than he should have. Shrieking, Gwen wheeled around and stormed back to Rory. Her foot came out and stomped on the side of his head, crushing his cheek into the stone floor. The gun in her hand whirled around and came to rest above his head. Jack thought it would be a kill shot, but instead Rory’s teeth shattered out. Chunks and chips panged off the wall. Large portions of his lips were suddenly missing, bloody gaps in his face. Gwen turned and marched herself to the bars, kicking them repeatedly. When she finished, the cell settled into quiet. Only the ragged breathing of the mushy puddle of the floor could be heard. 

“Look,” said Jack, his mouth brushing the Doctor’s head, “I know it’s nasty, but look.”

Carefully the Doctor turned his head to obey.

“See, look at him. There is no physical way he could possibly hurt you or me or any one of us. Okay? Understand?”

No answer came.

Jack rubbed his face into the Doctor’s hair and whispered, “Time to get you home.”

Heedless of the brutal filth, Jack slid his arm under the Doctor’s legs and held him close as he stood with the man in his arms. Ianto reached out and helped tuck the military coat around the Doctor’s naked body until he was sufficiently cocooned. 

Jack nodded to the lump on the floor, and said, “Take care of it. I don’t want it ever thought about again.”

With that he walked, taking his Doctor with him, out of the cell and down the dark halls. UNIT soldiers parted as the Doctor passed, eyes closed, curled up into Jack’s chest. They didn’t salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue or chapters of how things go?


	9. Pieces

Jack closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the edge of the medical bay table. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t really slept, and definitely hadn’t left. The Torchwood medbay became his home, like a hermit in a hole. He spent his days watching the Doctor’s unconscious face and when he couldn’t bare it anymore, busied himself with changing bandages. Any time where he wasn’t directly fussing about the Doctor, he hovered somewhere between sleeping and awake, reliving conversations.

“Doc,” Jack had whispered softly down to the man in his arms after they entered the TARDIS, “How do we help you? I don’t know about Time Lord physiology.”

Everyone was watching them, wanting to be close to the Doctor, but Jack carried him away from the console where the others stood and over to the wall for privacy.

The Doctor rasped in a breath, one that made Jack cringe in sympathy, and said hoarsely without opening his eyes, “Saline is… fine.”

“What about anesthetic?”

“Don’t have one… strong enough… to work…”

That was probably true, Jack thought, the way Time Lord cells regenerate—under normal circumstances anyway, but in his state, after Jack laid him as gently as he could on the cold metal table, Martha put a mask over his face. In five seconds, he was completely sedated. They had chosen to keep him that way for as long as it worked. When his metabolism fought the anesthetic then he would be well enough to be without it. Until then, no one was willing to put him through more pain than strictly necessary. 

Jack lifted his head and blinked several times. With one hand, he rubbed his face and then brought it down to grip the Doctor’s fingers. They were individually wrapped and coated with any kind of vitamin or healing accelerated cream they thought might help in the slightest. The skin from his fingertips were gone, and holding the Doctor’s hand wasn’t an option. He had saline IVs in both hands and both elbows. Jack lost count of how many bags they had gone through. Owen said he assumed the Doctor’s body was using it somehow to help heal himself, more drastically than a human anyway. Every couple of hours, Owen would take blood from a permanent needle in a vein of the Doctor’s neck and titer it. Every time without fail, he prescribed more bags of saline. 

Jack pressed his lips to the knuckles of the hand he was currently possessing, careful of the IV in the top of the hand and the second one in its wrist. Martha advised him to move any part as little as possible. 

In the TARDIS returning from the asteroid, the lot of them were concerned about getting the Doctor to a suitable medical facility while walking with him through the streets of Cardiff without attracting attention, but when Gwen opened the doors, they found themselves freshly materialized just inside Torchwood’s rolling door. Jack started moving quickly through the hub, but the Doctor’s hand suddenly gabbed the collar of his shirt, and Jack stopped abruptly, all his attention on the man in his arms. 

“No scales,” gasped the Doctor, “Scales are bad.”

The energy that had suddenly seized him dissipated, and his arm fell limp towards the floor. Ianto nearly tripped over himself to get to them and raise the beaten, twisted, and partially eaten arm to place it lightly on the Doctor’s stomach. 

Jack looked to Martha, but she too had no idea what he was talking about, not until they laid him out on the table and unwrapped him from Jack’s coat. Some of his injuries were scabbed over with dark red and black, but upon closer inspection, “scales” was definitely an accurate term. They were formed perfectly, like interlocking mesh, molding to the baseball sized crater in the front of the Doctor’s shoulder. Martha, Jack, and Owen sharred glances with one another. When Martha removed the anesthetic mask and was sure the Doctor was out, Owen leaned over, extended a gloved finger, and tapped it. It sounded like wood. He scratched it, and his glove tore, catching on the jagged edges of the scaled scab. Removing it proved to be difficult. They had to skin it out of him, but it came free in one piece. Owen dropped it on a tray and watched it wobble and come to a rest on its side, a gruesome bowl.

Underneath, in the Doctor’s flesh was a white film and underneath that was scraped bone with curling, dying muscle around the edges. Owen looked over to Jack, who clutched his hands together and pressed them to his mouth, taking one step back as his breath became ragged.

“Jack, you shouldn’t be here,” Owen told him.

“No,” said Jack as once, swallowing a gasp and recovering his back step, “No, I’m not leaving him again.”

“Come sit with us.”

Jack looked up at Tosh’s voice and found her, Gwen, and Ianto looking down. He shook his head at them.

The scaled scabs had popped up all over the Doctor’s body in varying degrees of strength and thickness, and some areas--more delicate and private ones--just had the white film. Upon closer inspection, Martha said the scales weren’t really scales at all. They were, as far as she could tell, a more complicated scab. The Doctor would have to enlighten them when he was able. Fortunately no more seemed to be appearing on even the worst injuries, so they were doing something right. 

“Doc,” Jack whispered to the unconscious man on the table.

Tubes ran from him like tendrils. They had covered him in a thin white sheet, but it was replaced constantly as red and pink and different shades of yellow pus soaked through. According to the doctors of the house, that was a good thing. They could see where all the injuries were still having trouble healing, and Jack supposed that made sense, but every time a new one seeped through, he fought to not cry out in despair. 

Jack kissed the Doctor’s knuckles again and wiped away moisture from his eyes.

“Doc, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You needed me, and I let you slip away. I should have just gone in to get you when I first landed there…. It’s just… doesn’t matter I suppose. But, Doc, I swear, I swear to you, whatever you need from me, anything, I will do it. I will get you better. I will make it up to you, I swear….”

His voice slowly dissolved. He laid his head on the table, tucked his face against the wrapped fingers, and let his tears fall sideways onto the table.

~

Something touched his hair. It was light and gentle. He blinked and then froze. The medbay seemed dim, which meant the rest of the hub was shut down for probably the night. The only light left was the one hanging behind Jack, but most of it was blocked from his vision by a needled wrist. Jack brought his hand up and delicately curled it around the Doctor’s and lifted his head. 

The eyes that held him were barely open and consciously watching, but they were empty and dark, almost accusing, though it might have been Jack’s own guilt making him think that. His expression was blank and dead.

“Hey,” said Jack, swallowing and looking for Martha, who was supposed to be monitoring him and was now sleeping on the steps, “Hey.”

Jack kissed the Doctor’s hand and got no reaction. He took a steadying breath and scooted himself up along the table closer to the Doctor’s head, resting a hand on the top his hair, thumb stroking the strands.

“You are in the Torchwood hub. Safe. Martha and Owen have been taking good care of you, and you’re healing. You’re getting better.”

Jack paused and laced his fingers through the Time Lord’s hair, chewing at his lip. 

“You should sleep,” he finally said, “The longer you sleep, the faster you’ll get better.”

The Doctor didn’t at first, just watched Jack with a blank expression, and Jack watched him as well, constantly outpouring gentle touches and strokes to any part that wasn’t visibly damaged. The Doctor’s eyes closed the rest of the way. Jack kissed his hand again. 

Martha would be furious when she woke up.

~

Furious she was. Jack suffered through hours of tirades and snippy comments about her patient and not waking her even before the Doctor woke up and so many other things, Jack stopped paying attention. They increased the anesthetic, and the Doctor did not wake all day or night after that, or indeed the next couple of days altogether. 

When he did wake for the second time, Jack wasn’t the first thing he saw. The Captain was dragging his bucket of water and shampoo and cup from washing the Doctor’s hair up the steps to Tosh, who was sweet enough to help. Then Owen’s voice reached him, kinder than he had ever heard before.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

Jack dropped the bucket, sloshing water all over the floor, and sprinted. Owen was looking down at the man on the table, his face a mask of pity and sympathy, and the Doctor was giving him the same blank stare. Jack slid into the Doctor’s view, and the Time Lord’s gaze shifted to him. 

Smiling, Jack reached out to touch his face, but Owen took his hand instead and pulled it back, shaking his head.

“Why,” said Jack, his voice almost panicked, “Why can’t I touch him?”

“Just talk to him,” said Owen, glossing over the question, “Ask him if he knows where he is.”

Jack repeated the question and got nothing but a slow blink from the sunken depths of the Doctor’s emaciated face.

“Do you know who I am?” asked Jack. 

No answer.

Leaning closer, nearly frantic now, “Please tell me you know who I am…? Doc, please, what is my name?”

Breath caught in the Doctor’s chest and a second later, the monitor machines went ballistic. The Doctor’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“Jack, get out of here,” Owen said, pushing him aside, stethoscope in hand, “Jack, go!”

Owen did his best to calm the Doctor, who was giving every attempt to dislodge his body from the table, but it was Martha, whom Gwen had woken and retrieved, that began to get through to him. She spoke softly and calmly, but what she said were not reassurances. From above looking down on them, Jack heard her tell of Shakespeare, pig people, and the moon, a race called the Hath Jack hadn’t heard of in a couple hundred years, living stars, and crazed monsters who meant to live forever. Somewhere is the midst of all her stories, the Doctor normalized, and when he drifted she kept talking.

~

The next night, the Doctor had a nightmare they couldn’t wake him from, the kind of nightmare that had him screaming, the doctor’s scrambling, and Jack standing in the background with hands pressed over his lips, tears falling one drop at a time.

~

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Jack, watching the table form the floor where he and Owen sat with their backs pressed against the wall.

“He’s healing,” said Owen.

“I mean the rest of him…. Will he be himself?”

Owen sighed and scratched at his nose, saying, “I think you should talk to Martha about that.”

“No, you will tell me the truth.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Jack swallowed but then said, “Yes, will he be okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Jack, we can see his injuries and draw conclusions from there. He’s a million years old. I’m sure he’s been through some bad stuff, but… he wasn’t in good shape mentally when he left here, and what we see is just that. We don’t actually know what they did to him…. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t expect him to bounce back.”

~

Somewhere in his dream, Jack realized he was sleeping. Alarm ran through him, and his head shot up. He blinked and slowly took in the dim medbay, his eyes going almost instinctively to the metal table where the Doctor lie, but found Martha blocking his view. He was on the floor still, cocooned in three blankets, which was three more than he had fallen asleep with. Mutterings reached him. He strained his eyes and ears, and could just make out words.

Martha whispered to the Doctor, sitting comfortably and leaning casually on the edge of the table. She was telling stories again, but this time they weren’t about the adventures she and the Doctor had. They were about Jack.

He was really botching this. He just wanted to be there, to make sure the Doctor knew he was safe and loved and would someday be completely fine again because Jack was going to make him that way. With a deep breath, he quietly stood, blankets falling around him like water, and picked up the stool at Owen’s desk. He brought it over to them and set it down beside Martha. 

The Doctor was awake. Jack had to steady himself when he saw the clouded, bloodshot eyes open, and even more, paying attention it seemed. He was focused on Martha, following her, and when Jack quietly placed the stool and sat beside her, the Doctor’s eyes moved to him. For a single second, the Captain was caught with an openly heartbroken look on his face, but then he forced a smile, and he hoped it seemed genuine.

“Ianto and I sat in the coffee shop for hours,” Martha continued without acknowledging him, “And from what he said, no, the time on Valiant didn’t do anything to temper him. You’d think a year on that ship, tied up, he’d at least go home and take a nap.”

“Why would I do that?” whispered Jack, with half a smile, the Doctor’s eyes moving towards him, “A whole year without anyone else but soldiers and an even cockier Time Lord? I went for the nearest gay bar and then found my team. All hell broke loose from there though.”

“Your old friend John, right?” asked Martha, and the Doctor’s gaze returned to her.

“Old friend indeed,” agreed Jack sarcastically, eyes on him now.

Back and forth they went, quietly and calmly with the occasional laugh or groan. When the alert sight of the Doctor faded and sleep took him, they lapsed into silence, Jack running his thumb over the Doctor’s fingers and Martha stroking the side of his face. 

“That was better,” Martha finally said, “I think we should be gentle and careful, but do not treat him as if her were incapable of understanding. Assume he hears you. Assume he knows what you are saying, even if you’re sure he doesn’t. It isn’t the words you say but how you hold yourself when you say them, the tone you use, how you look at him. Then when he is ready, he can interact in the way he’s used to. He won’t feel like he’s any different.”

That became their routine when they saw his eyes open. Sometimes he just stared at the ceiling. They would still talk, but they might as well have been speaking to a corps. Indeed, Jack sometimes stood frozen and waited, watching for the rise and fall of the Doctor’s chest. The noise of the monitoring machines didn’t matter. The relief that flooded him every time he affirmed for himself that he was, in fact, not speaking to a corpse—that relief could have made him sob. 

Other times, though, Jack would catch the Doctor watching him, eyes following every step as he paced, and Jack would smile with his goofy smile, grab a chair or stool, and spin a tale of his team, omitting the more graphic details of death or bodies or imprisonment, focusing mostly on their friends. He was just silently watched.

~

Jack wasn’t sleeping this time. His head lie on his folded arm on the table at the Doctor’s side, his other hand slowly tracing lines over the Doctor’s freshly unwrapped fingers. The skin looked new, wrinkled like they spent too long in water, but Martha surmised that in time the flesh would smooth out and look perfectly normal. It was soft to the touch and every now and then one of the fingers would twitch, and the Captain had to suppress a smile.

“Jack.”

Harshly sucking in a breath, Jack turned his head. The Doctor’s eyes were closed. He wasn’t moving. Jack hesitated, thinking maybe it was part of a dream. He scooted closer. 

“Doc?” he asked softly.

He watched as the Doctor’s lips parted, eyes still shut, and said, “Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. What can I do?”

The index finger of the hand Jack had just been lovingly attending raised, and slowly the rest of the hand followed. Jack reached out with both hands and took it.

“TARDIS.”

“She’s here in the hub, just waiting for you to get better.”

“TARDIS. Please.”

A small piece of Jack heart broke. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to the hand that was now finally curled around his in a loose grip.

“No, Doc, you can’t go in there. You have to stay here until you’re better—but I promise she is in safe hands. Martha goes to visit her occasionally, tells her how you are. When you can move around then we can go in the TARDIS.”

The Doctor’s mouth worked, but he didn’t seem to have the capability to form the words. He didn’t have the energy. The Doctor was silently arguing as his hand gradually lowered, and its extremely light grip was gone. Back asleep, he seemed to still have a small frown on his brow. 

~

Daytime meant stories and casual conversation, and Martha and all of Torchwood were palpably optimistic—but that was because Jack didn’t tell them what happened at night when all of them were sleeping. Though, Jack reasoned, the Doctor would have to be awake enough, mentally present enough to only speak when he and Jack were alone, and that was itself a good sign, but that was where the optimism ended.

“Jack.”

It was always quiet, softer than everything else he said. Jack paused in rewrapping the Doctor’s feet and looked up.

Softly he said, “Hey, down here. Ten seconds, okay?”

With fast and practiced movements, he finished covering the heel of his second foot and tucked it down, white linen perfectly placed. Three steps later, he sat on the chair, his hands falling naturally to the Doctor’s hair and hand, a smile on his face.

“TARDIS, Jack.”

Jack licked his lips, and said, “When you can move, remember? She’s safe and secure, just waiting for you.”

“No, Jack.”

The desperation in the Doctor’s voice and on his normally blank face wrapped around Jack’s chest like a fist intent on squeezing the air from him.

“I know, I really do, I’m sorry. Give it time. Your body is recovering fantastically. I can’t believe it. Were there even hospitals on Gallifrey? I can’t imagine anything infirming you.”

“Please, Jack, please,” the Doctor implored, his voice on the edge of tears, “I’ll do anything.”

The Captain leaned forward, as if being closer would make his words easier to understand, “I know what you want, and I’m not keeping you from it. We can’t move you until you’re healed. As soon as you are, you can do whatever you want. Just rest. I know you’re sick of hearing that.”

The Doctor’s hand came and curled around the collar of Jack’s T-shirt. He looked like he wanted to continue begging, pleading his case until the man finally understood, but no words came out. A tear escaped from each eye, and Jack’s calm cracked. He stood and leaned down, placing his hands on the sides of the Doctor’s face, wiped away the drops with his thumbs.

“Okay, Doc, okay,” he said, the edges of his eyes reddening with the waver of his voice, “I’ll make a deal, okay? Tomorrow… tomorrow if you talk to Martha—you can say anything—if you talk to her, I will get you into the TARDIS, even if I have to sneak you around the doctors, I’ll get you in there, okay? Deal? Please, Doc. I don’t know what else to do. Just give it one more day. Show them that you’re improving, and then I can do more for you without them making me stay away from you.”

The Doctor pulled on the material in his grip and brought Jack closer down to him. With a sigh, Jack rested his forehead down on the Doctor’s.

“Home,” the Doctor sobbed, “Home, Jack, please.”

Jack closed his eyes. He slid an arm under the Doctor’s head and cradled him, burying his face in the Doctor’s hair, until the Time Lord fell asleep.

~

He did not speak to Martha. Jack tried to get him to, urged him into comments or agreement and gestured towards her, but the Doctor didn’t acknowledge anyone. When he fell asleep, it seemed he stayed that way. Martha again slept on the steps, and when four in the morning approached, Jack wrapped a blanket around himself and sat on the floor at the other end of the medbay room, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and almost immediately was asleep. 

And what seemed like seconds later, Martha screamed his name. 

He started awake, reaching for his pistol and eyes landing on the table where the Doctor lie. 

But there was no Doctor. The table was empty, sheet on the floor. All the tubes and needles and strips of red-tinged gauze were hanging or piled on the floor, but no Doctor. Jack shot to his feet and ran to the medbay steps. Martha was already there, spinning on the spot, shock blatant on her face as she looked around, but Jack blew past her. He knew where to go, but the thought, just the thought that the Doctor was running away—now—again—without him. One foot after the other, this step faster and the next even quicker. Ianto tried to get out of his way, but Jack sprinted by in abject terror and knocked the drinks all down the man’s nice suit. 

Jack didn’t slow down. He threw himself at the TARDIS door, panicked that the box would vanish without him. The door gave way, and Jack fell through, his hand slamming flat on the floor with a “slap” to keep himself upright as speed over-countered balance. A couple wobbly lunges forward, and he slowed to a stop. 

There, a flesh colored mass curled on its side under the console. Jack held his jagged breath, watching, waiting. The Doctor’s shoulder rose. And then fell.

Jack sank to his knees and leaned forward on his arms, gulping down lungfuls of air. He pressed his hot face against the cool floor, and tried to calm the nausea that threatened to take him. Feet and legs rushed passed him, but someone knelt down on the floor and placed a strong hand on his shoulder. With one last gulp, Jack forced himself up and back onto his ankles. Jack glanced up at Ianto and looked over as Martha and Owen each took a heart with their stethoscopes and listen before quickly spreading him flat on his back, the Doctor’s arms flopping out on the floor with a “smack” each. His head wobbled as his doctors checked all the scabbed-over needle points, dried blood streaked and dribbled across his sickly pale skin.

“Ianto,” Martha called commandingly, “Help us lift him.”

“No,” said Jack breathlessly.

Owen stopped what he was doing, and Martha frowned at him, saying, “We need to get him back to the medbay and scan him.”

“You know he’ll be fine, and if he isn’t there is nothing you can do. Just get him a blanket and leave him,” said Jack.

Owen sat back on his heels in mirror of Jack and waited.

“Jack, he needs to be monitored and medicated—“

“No, he needs to be here in the TARDIS.”

“He’s not well enough—“

“If he can make it off that table and get all the way in here without waking either of us up, he deserve to be here.”

Martha puffed up and stepped towards him. Jack struggled to his feet with Ianto’s help. It was only then that he realized he still had his pistol in his hand. Ianto took it from him, to help or to keep others safe, Jack didn’t know.

She spoke slowly, “He is my patient, and I am his doctor. I will decide what attention he needs.”

“Owen is his doctor,” Jack spat back, stepping forward, “You are his friend.”

“I am both—“

“No, you are not thinking as a doctor. You’re just being overprotective, but that’s not what he needs. He needs Owen and friends who care about what he wants.”

Martha stood inches from him, the barely contained anger radiating from her, and said, “Do not ever say I don’t care about what he wants. It is my job to know what he needs. He is not well enough to stay in here without attention, Jack.”

She closed the last couple inches between them, and said, “Stop undermining me because you want to be his hero.”

The tension peeked, and Ianto stuck his arm between them, pulling Jack a step back. 

“Owen,” said Ianto, “The decision is yours.”

Neither Jack nor Martha stopped glaring at each other long enough to look at the other doctor. Owen tapped the ear pieces of his stethoscope on the floor, watching the Doctor spread out before him.

“Has he expressed a want to be in here before?” asked Owen.

“Yes,” Jack answered at once, still glaring at Martha, “He talks to me at night when no one else is around, not much, but enough to make it known what he wants.”

Martha looked shaken by that information.

“He begged, Martha. He cried. I told him no so many times. It’s been four days. Apparently we was done asking.”

Owen pinched the bridge of his nose and stood, wrapping the cord of his stethoscope around the ear pieces, and said, “I want him in the medbay so we can watch him, but Jack’s right. In most cases, there isn’t much we can do anyway. Physically, he’s improving and will continue, but I think now we should shift form physical to mental health. This is clearly important to him. We will move as much of the med-gear as possible in here. Is that acceptable, Jack?”

Jack swallowed and finally looked over at him. 

He said, “Yes, but give him the day. Wait until he wakes up to hook everything back in him. Please.”

Owen tapped his finger on the device in his hands and then knelt, unwinding it, to check the Doctor’s hearts again. He held his hand in the path of the Time Lord’s breath and stood.

With a sigh, he turned, and nodded.

“Yeah, Jack, okay. Talk to him when he wakes up and then come get us.”

Jack sagged with relief and tilted his head towards Ianto, asking, “Can you get him a blanket?”

Ianto nodded and walked away.

“Martha, can you find the wardrobe in here and get him some clothes? He’s been without them long enough.”

She seemed lost, for once unsure of herself, but she turned and mounted the steps to disappear. Jack walked up to him and crouched, running his hands through the Doctor’s hair. Ianto returned with the blanket, and Martha returned with grey sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt draped over her arm. The three of them carefully and easily dressed the Doctor, pulling pants up around his jutting hips for the first time in weeks. The shirt was a little more tricky as they maneuvered it around the holes in his arms, chest, and stomach. Jack sat with his back against the console and laid the Doctor’s head in his lap. Martha wrapped him up in the blanket, rolling him onto his side like he had been when they found him, tucking his arms and legs in and adjusting them just so until he looked comfortable. Satisfied, she leaned down and pressed a long kiss into his temple.

“Tell us when he’s awake,” she said, standing, with something of a threat in her tone.

Jack gave her one nod and draped a protective arm down over the Doctor’s side. Owen, Martha, and Ianto drifted towards the TARDIS door, where Gwen and Tosh had lingered, listening, but they all disappeared behind the door as it closed. Suddenly the TARDIS was quiet and still, the air only occupied by their breathing and the hum of the engines. Jack stroked the Doctor’s hair, looking down at him. 

“You’ll be okay now. You’re home. No one is going to take you away.”


End file.
